


The Last Moonlight Serenade

by gankyourdarlings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Historical, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Community: deancasbigbang, Drug Use, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, Past Abuse, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racist Language, Wartime, Wartime Romance, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-22 12:47:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 59,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2508413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gankyourdarlings/pseuds/gankyourdarlings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the night before 1945 and Honolulu is celebrating like flipping the calendar is all it'll take to end this thing and send everybody home. Makes for one hell of a party. But it's been a long war, getting longer, and Dean Winchester stopped pinning his hopes on anything a long time ago. Then, as the clock ticks down to the new year, he finds himself in the company of a grounded fighter pilot. All of the sudden, maybe there's something to look forward to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

_1927_

  
“Dean, I’m trusting you with this now. Don’t let me down.”

“No, sir, I won’t.”

John’s hand on his shoulder was more a shackle than a benediction. “You watch over your brother. I’ll send back what I can.”

Dean looked out over the skeletal acres of their farm, knowing better than to let his doubt creep through. The place wasn’t much, but it was all they had. A lot to hold together with fifteen-and-a-half-year-old hands.

“How long is it gonna be?”

John climbed into the passenger seat of the idling truck and rested an elbow out the open window. The man behind the wheel was a stranger and didn’t look at Dean. “Long as it takes.”

Dean ducked his head.

“You better get back in before Sam wakes up. I don’t want any scenes.”

“Yes, sir.” He turned away from the truck, jamming his hands in the pockets of his denim overalls. He stopped to watch the truck start down the long dirt drive out to the road.

“Dean? Where’s dad going?”

Shit. Sam was squinting the early-morning light, his hair was sticking up all over.

“He’s going to find some work, Sammy. It’s just gonna be you and me for a while.”

“What?” Sam tripped down the steps, passing Dean. “Wait! Dad!”

Sam started to run, and Dean leapt after him and caught his arm. Sam was eleven and all elbows, usually no match for him, but the kid was desperate and yanked his arm away, tearing off after the truck on his dirty feet.

“Dad!”

No way John didn’t hear that shriek, but the truck kept right on going. Sam finally gave up and stood there in the cloud of dust, pulling at his hair.

The truck took the turn and headed west. John didn’t wave and neither did Dean.

Maybe he would have, if he had known he’d spend the rest of his life waiting for him to come back.

 

 

_1944, Almost ‘45_

  
The water along Waikiki was so warm Dean could barely feel the spot along his calves where it ended and the balmy nighttime air began. He wavered a little on his feet. His khaki trousers were hiked up around his knees, but not quite high enough to keep the hem from getting soaked.

“All right, Old Man. That’s it for me tonight.” No answer, but he felt that somewhere in the blackness above, Bobby was rolling his eyes fondly down upon him. “Have a good one. Say ‘hello’ to Karen. And uh, don’t worry about your boat. I’ll take care of her.” He shook his head, fighting off the now-familiar tightness in his throat. “But hey, if you got a minute, help me out up there. Okay? I know you probably got better things to do than perch on my shoulder all day, but this is a big one, Bobby. I could use a hand.” Nothing but the surf in reply. “Just please don’t let me fuck this up.”

The bottle of Jack in his hand was just about empty. He raised it in a salute toward the east, all the way to Leyte Gulf where Bobby had made his big exit, and chucked it as far out as it could go, staggering a little. The bottle splashed down with a thunk and disappeared amid the broken white moonlight on the water. His left trouser leg finally gave up the ghost and slumped down into the surf.

He held a hand up in farewell and turned back to the hotel, grabbing his shoes and socks from the water’s edge. As he trudged his trousers pulled at his calf where the saltwater sealed the fabric to his skin. On the deserted patio, he dropped into a chair to let the sand dry off his feet before he headed up.

The noise from the party inside the Royal Hawaiian flew out past him onto the ocean, _Moonlight Serenade_ mixing with shouts and raucous laughter.

He’d only just heard the news about Glenn Miller. It had been all over the papers on Christmas Day. Missing in action, they said, a no-show for the first big concert in a Paris that wasn’t Hitler’s anymore. Dean knew better than to expect any miracles, but if that guy didn’t turn up, he’d feel it. All that magic, shot to hell. Another casualty, along with all the great songs he’d never write.

He leaned an elbow on the table and had to catch himself when it slid off the edge at a slight miscalculation of perpendicular. He was, in fact, a little drunk. A beer-and-tequila haze had settled over the whole place and the world was gauzy. It looked nice that way, like a Garbo close-up.

He was letting himself coast on that thought, trying to think as little as possible, when the sudden clink of glass came out of the darkness behind him. He jumped so sharply his cap went askew.

He turned to see a guy sitting there in there in the dark, not even ten feet off, slouched in a patio chair.

“Jesus.” Dean laughed and ran a hand down his face. “You scared the living shit out of me.”

The guy just watched him, tilting his head. He had a pea coat on over his officers’ khakis, even though it wasn’t remotely chilly. “Sorry.”

Fuck. You’d have to smoke a pack a day from age six to end up with a voice like that.

“How long you been sitting there?”

The guy tapped the ash off a cigarette and poured himself another before answering, “A while.”

“Little creepy, lurking in the dark.”

“I was trying to remember a poem I used to know,” he sighed, enunciating just a little too carefully to be fully sober.

“Well, I’d help you out but I know a grand total of jack shit about poetry. Just that one about the lady from Nantucket.”

The guy smiled into his Scotch. “Hm, not the one. Thanks.” He set his glass down and brandished the bottle. “Want some?” The label said it was the good stuff. The really good stuff.

At Dean’s shrug the guy kicked a chair back from beneath the table. Dean pulled himself up, grabbed a cleanish-looking glass off another table and took the offered seat. He held the glass out for a modest fill, eying his enigmatic new drinking buddy. The honey-colored light from the tiki torches did a lot of favors for people, but those good looks were the real thing.

He jutted his chin toward the insignia on the guy’s chest. “You know your fish are, uh, upside down there.”

“Are they?” He didn’t even look. “Little rascals.”

Dean grinned and shrugged in a clumsy, not-trying-to-be-a-dick-but-just-saying way. “Dean Winchester, off the _Colt_. How about you?”

For some reason his introduction prompted a snort of laughter.

“What?” He scowled, outside of an inside joke.

“The _Colt_?”

“That a problem?”

“Well...”

“What?”

“Just blows my cover story out of the water, is all.” He swung wide, blue eyes up to meet Dean’s. “Sorry, is that an inappropriate turn of phrase around submariners?”

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, Dean leaned in and lifted the lapel of the guy’s coat. The bar pinned to his chest read in big, bold letters, LA FITTE. “Funny, I know a La Fitte. Benny. Good guy. Happens to be the Executive Officer on my very own boat.”

“Well, that’s quite a coincidence.” The guy wasn’t even pretending to hide his mirth. “Maybe we’re related.”

“Yeah, that shirt’s a little big for you, buddy.” Dean sat back. “All right, spill it. How are you wearing my XO’s uniform? And please, for the love of God, don’t tell me that guy is running around here naked, because that is just about the last way I want to ring in the New Year.”

He held up his hands. “No foul play, I promise. I just did him a favor.” He tugged the collar of the shirt. “This was reciprocity.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“Apparently, a flight jacket can do favors for a man in certain quarters of this city. I happen to own one. He made an offer.”

Dean shook his head and laughed. “Yeah, sounds like the kind of shit-for-brains plan Benny would come up with. Nice of you to help him out.”

“Share and share alike, my mother told me.”

“I just hope you get your jacket back. Cleaned.” Dean folded his hands across his stomach and crossed his legs. “So. A flyboy, huh? Bomber?”

“Fighter. Forty-fifth.”

Dean nodded. His interest really didn’t need any more piquing, but there it went. Better watch himself. “What, they don’t they treat you guys nice enough, you gotta come horn in on the submariners?”

The guy shrugged and pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his pocket, placing one in his mouth. He jutted his chin at the rosy stucco of the hotel. “I heard good things about the Pink Lady here. All true, by the way.” He held out the pack. “Want one?”

“Thanks.”

“They came with the coat.”

Dean chuckled. “Man, I am gonna give Benny so much shit for this stunt.”

“But if he hadn’t thought of it we never would have met, and we’re having a nice conversation here, aren’t we?”

They watched each other, and Dean’s heartbeat tread a little harder in his chest. It had been a long time. Too long. And he could use something. By the looks of him, maybe this guy could, too.

It was a careful dance. It always started like this, on that rare occasion when the more clandestine piece of himself sensed a tremor of connection. Deciphering messages in looks, choosing to understand or feign ignorance, to accept or allow the opportunity to dissolve. If he were honest with himself, this was what he liked about it. The secret, the risk, the ephemeral nature of the whole thing.

A waiter materialized to bus the tables, and they quieted. As the empty glasses were cleared from their table Dean attempted an apologetic smile for the mess. Had to be a shitty job, he thought, always cleaning up after somebody else’s last night of the world.

Once they were alone again, he exhaled a plume of smoke and gave his new pilot friend a look he hoped was pretty clear in intent. “So you gonna give me your name?”

“Castiel. Castiel Novak.”

“Castiel?”

The guy waved the curiosity off with a lazy flick of his fingers. “The Angel of Thursday. Long story. Just Novak is fine.”

Dean made a face and blew smoke over his shoulder. “I ain’t calling you by your last name, Cas.”

It was Cas’s turn to look thoughtful as he stared into his drink. “Where are you from, Dean?”  
  
“Kansas.”

“Career Navy?”

He nodded. “Enlisted back in ‘30, the minute I turned eighteen.”

“And here you are, a submarine commander.”

Dean shrugged it off. “That was chance and timing more than anything else. Friend of mine got me in on his crew early, while the getting was good. I’d stand a snowball’s chance in hell next to the crop they got today.”

“I doubt that’s true.”

Yeah, it really was, but no point shooting himself in the foot here. “How about you? Where you from?”

“A number of places.” Cas shrugged. “I moved a lot.”

“Humor me.”

He sighed and bobbed his head as he ticked off each one. “New York, Alexandria, London, Chicago—for a very short while, India, Indiana...”

Dean leaned forward. “Wait, did you say India? As in the country? Are you shitting me?”

“For a year, when I was about thirteen.”

He cataloged what he knew about India but didn’t come up with a lot—exotic food, girls in saris, Brits in khaki. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody who’s been to India. What’s it like?”

“Hot. Politically screwed. Frankly, I preferred Indiana, though I did lose my virginity at Purdue so I may be biased.”

Dean laughed out loud. “So you’re a Boilermaker?”

“A what?”

“A Purdue man.”

“Oh. The athletic team. No. My father did some work there. I didn’t attend.”

“You’ve got college boy written all over you, though. Where’d you go?”

“Oxford.”

“Oxford.” He whistled. “Fancy-schmancy. My résumé is not stacking up here.”

Cas gave him an inscrutable smile. “Who’s waiting for you back in Kansas, Dean Winchester?”

“Nobody.” Dean swallowed. God, the look on that face. If this didn’t pan out he was going to need one hell of a cold shower. “It’s just me and my brother now, and he’s off in Europe.”

“Older or younger?”

“Younger, by four years. Old enough to be heading up a platoon now, but you know how it is. I pretty much raised that kid, so he’s gonna be my pesky kid brother ‘til the day I die.”

“Must be difficult, having him off on the other side of the world.”

“To be honest, I’m glad he’s over there. The fucked-up shit that goes on on these little piece-of-crap islands? Closest thing to hell I can imagine. I don’t want Sam in that.” He shifted and crossed his legs. Sam wasn’t what he wanted to be talking about here. “So how about you? Who’s waiting?”

“No one.” He met Dean’s eye, and fuck if there wasn’t an invitation in that look. Addressed and engraved.

So here it was. Cas was calling his hand. Got to grab the brass ring sometime.

“You headed over to Hickam tonight, or what?”

Cas smirked at his drink. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just sleep out here on the beach.”

“Nah, don’t do that. It could rain.” It was very obviously not going to rain. “I’ve got a double, you know, if you want.”

Cas flicked some ash onto the patio and gave Dean a careful, sidelong look. “You’re sure you don’t mind the company.”

“I don’t mind.”

Inside the Royal Hawaiian, the countdown was starting. A hundred voices charged with the electric hope that this year, at long last, was going to be a good one. Let them hope, Dean figured. He was past all that. He set his sights on things in reach now, like this good-looking stranger across the table.

Cas leaned in, resting his elbows on the table, and dropped his voice. “You’re being coy, quite understandably, but this is where I like to make sure about things. Are you inviting me because you’re interested in sex?”

Dean’s eyes shot open wide and he looked around. They were blessedly alone, the crowd inside giving everything they had to cheer in 1945.

He tried to look more comfortable with the frankness than he felt. He nodded. “Yeah… yeah, that’s why I’m asking.”

“Oh, thank God. Where’s your room?”

Dean grinned and pointed a thumb toward the north wing. “Fourth floor, end of the hall.”

Cas downed his drink and stood, grabbing the bottle. “See you there, Commander.”

For a second Dean just watched him striding toward the hotel without so much as a backward glance to make sure Dean was following.

Hello, 1945.

 

Dean was awoken by the morning sun. The drapes swelled with the breeze off of the ocean, letting in flashes of white light and beach air. He considered belatedly that the window was open and noise might carry some distance from the bed. Good thing the rest of the place had been roaring drunk all night, probably still was, and nobody would have been listening too close.

Beside him, Cas still slept, his back turned, arm stretched toward the door.

It had been a memorable night. Cas was as good as advertised, uninhibited and hungry, experienced and demanding. Bratty, even. And Dean had liked it. Nah, he’d fucking loved it. The guy had fascinated and overwhelmed him, even pissed him off. But at the end of it, it was pure heaven. Every minute. He had needed a little of that.

Sitting up, he looked at the mussed, dark head on the pillow and the spread of naked shoulders that he had licked and lightly bitten. He knew the taste of that skin. He’d take it with him. For once, he felt the rare regret that the war kept these engagements limited.

It didn’t take long to get showered and uniformed. He was pulling on his socks when Cas turned over and blinked. His expression was blank and it stayed that way when his eyes fell on Dean.

“It’s 0800,” Dean explained. “I’ve got some meetings, but you can stick around for a little while if you want. I don’t know when they get up here to clean the room.”

Cas looked back at the ceiling, arms splayed out palms-up on the sheets beside him. He didn’t say a word.

Dean pulled on a dress shoe. “So I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I’d be okay with it if you wanted to track me down again sometime. I mean, more than okay with it.”

Cas’s gaze shifted, but he didn’t look at Dean.

Dean finished with this shoes and dropped his foot to the floor, but sat watching Cas stare for a moment. “You uh, you okay in there, buddy?”

He got a nod, and finally some direct eye contact.

“Yes. Thank you, Dean. This was very nice.”

Dean put on his best affronted face. “Hey. It was a lot better than ‘very nice.’ Don’t talk about it like it was a damn tea party.”

“That’s true.” He blew out a breath. “I don’t know if anybody’s ever told you this, but your dick is, for all intents and purposes, perfect.”

“Well…” He grinned. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Dean felt a little surge of affection for the weird, sexy guy in his bed. “So? You want to get together again?”

Cas’s gaze wandered back to the ceiling. “I’m not sure we should.”

“Why’s that?”

“They’re putting me back on combat duty soon.”

“And I’m pulling out for another patrol in a couple of days. So that’s forty-eight hours, at least.”

Cas didn’t reply and Dean frowned, trying to reconcile the wan figure in the bed with the stick of dynamite who had blown him into a million pieces the night before.

“What? What’s the matter?”

Cas met his eye. “It’s hard enough to go back. I guess I’d rather not make it any harder.”

Dean moved to sit beside him and ran a hand through his hair, messing it up a little more. It looked good like that, wild. “Well, don’t think about it as something you’re gonna leave behind. Think about making some good memories to take along. When’s the next time you get leave?”

“A year, maybe. Possibly never. I don’t know. They can’t spare pilots, unless we’re cracking.”

Dean took that in. “You look like you’re in one piece.”

Cas picked at loose thread on the hem of the sheet. “I always was. And then one day I forgot how to land my plane.” He smiled humorlessly. “Earned myself a free vacation.”

“Jesus. So how are you still here?”

“A friend was around to snap me out of it.”

“Good friend.”

“Yeah. And once we were on the ground, he beat the living shit out of me. So then we both got leave. Buy-one, get-one.”

Not for the first time, Dean said a silent thank-you to whoever had fought the good fight to guarantee submariners their two weeks between patrols. He’d have lost it a long time ago otherwise. “You guys are still spread pretty thin out there, huh?”

Cas shrugged. “Until Hitler goes down, Europe has dibs on personnel.”

Dean tapped his fingers on his knee. “Listen. I can’t do much about Hitler, but things have been a little bit of a shitshow for me, too lately.” He rested a hand on Cas’s hip and caressed the peak of the bone with his thumb. “I know there’s an expiration date here, but I could use a nice memory or two. Or six or eight, depending on your schedule.”

Cas actually laughed. The blue in his eyes was deep. He regarded Dean, tilting his head on the pillow. “You’re a difficult man to refuse.”

“I command eighty guys stuffed in a steel barrel. Charm helps.”

“It’s effective.” Cas ran a thumb along Dean’s knuckles with a look that said he might want to start something.

Dean forced himself to settle down and pulled the hand back to scratch his neck. “All right, I wish I could stick around and flirt a while longer, but I’ve gotta go.”

“Mm. If you must.” Cas stretched languidly, his skin tanned and golden against the bedsheets. “Really, Dean. This was good.”

“Hey. More where that came from.” He leaned down and kissed him, slowly and deeply, even though Cas’ mouth was still fuzzy. “You think about it. But not too much. I’ll track you down later.”

Cas grabbed Dean’s shirt as he pulled back, holding him there. “I’ll be at Hickam.”

“Okay then.” He accepted one more kiss, victorious, and for some reason kissed Cas’s forehead before he got up to leave, grinning like an idiot. “Until later.”

 

The _Colt_ might have been the property of the United States Navy, but she was Dean’s baby. Bobby had brought Dean onto his crew as a lieutenant back in ‘42, when she wasn’t much more than a hollow keel in a Groton dry dock. He’d seen her come together, take her sea trials, get fitted out from the torpedo tubes down to the coffee maker. He’d seen her patched up time and again—even done some of the patching himself. Except for a few patrols when Bobby had forced him to go get some rounding-out and serve under somebody else’s command, he had spent the entire war with his eyes glues to her periscope. He knew her better than he knew his own hands.

And that meant nobody so much as changed a light bulb on the _Colt_ without his knowledge. He was pretty sure the relief crew at Pearl Harbor dreaded the moment she put in because they knew they were going to have goddamn Winchester barking at them and hovering over their shoulders for the next two weeks straight. One of the charms of shore leave.

He’d been told in no uncertain terms that he was supposed to be on leave once the boat pulled into Pearl and was not to actually join the relief crew in the work. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t supervise. Closely.

“Bullshit, they told me I had a new deck gun coming last time,” he told some hapless mechanic’s mate on the submarine base. “You’re not putting me off again.”

“We refurbished—”

“That thing has been soaking in saltwater for years. It’s done. Get me a new gun. And that prop better be spinning like a goddamn pinwheel because this is the second patrol now it’s picked up a squeak. They don’t call it the Silent Service for shits and giggles, pal. Make it silent.”

When he turned to stride away Benny stuck by his side, hands in his pockets, doing a pretty good job of concealing what had to be one mother of a hangover.

“How you feeling there, buddy?”

“I am feeling pretty good that I did not vomit on that man’s shoes,” Benny drawled.

“‘Atta boy, celebrate the small victories.” Dean slapped his shoulder, making him wince. “Heard it was a good night. You show her your plane, or just regale her with tales of your harrowing dogfights over Japan?”

Benny managed a chastised chuckle. “Brother, you really do see everything.”

“Eyes in the back of my goddamn head.” Dean pulled up and faced him. “Just happened to run into a pilot wearing your Dolphins last night. Had a nice chat. You still got that jacket?”

“Yeah, I was gonna bring it over later. Why?”

“Don’t bother, I can take it. I’ve got some business out that way. You go hit the sack.”

“You know, you are not half the bastard as everybody says you are.”

“Aw, shucks.”

And that was how Dean ended up with a decent pretense for lurking around Hickam Army Airfield late that afternoon.

He was ready with his Navy credentials and a vague story about a meeting with Novak, but apparently Cas had given somebody a heads-up because they waved him in without much fuss and pointed him in the right direction. Once inside he kept a stern look on his face and nobody paid him much attention. He hovered a little distance from a few guys in khaki standing along a chain link fence and scanned the tarmac for a familiar shape.

He saw Cas before Cas saw him, which meant he had a good minute to watch him stalk around and bark instructions at some mechanic. A man after Dean’s own heart. Cas was back in his own khaki uniform, dark aviator sunglasses on his face. That sight alone was going to get Dean through the next three months in his cramped cabin on the _Colt_.

Dean knew the second Cas caught sight of him because he pulled off about the sexiest double-take Dean had ever seen, head snapping up like he had locked on target. Beneath the sunglasses his mouth pulled into a little grin. The victim he’d been chastising forgotten, he sauntered up to the fence.

Cas stood with his hands on his hips. “That looks like it belongs to me.”

Dean held up the arm over which the jacket was draped. “Wanted to make sure it got back to its rightful owner.” He dropped his voice. “Might have to put it on you, though. See if it fits.”

“Prince Charming.”

“You want to come out here and do the glass slipper thing?”

“I’ve got a better idea.” Cas reached into his pocket. “Got anything to write on?”

“Sure.” Dean reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a piece of stationery from the Royal Hawaiian, folded and already scribbled full of names and numbers. He handed it through the fence.

Cas paused with a pen over the paper. “That’s a lot of room numbers.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “My crew.”

“Well, I wouldn’t blame them for trying.” His face turned surreptitiously in the direction of Dean’s belt buckle before returning to his task, leaving Dean with a pleased blush. Cas handed the paper back through the fence. “Wait for me there. I’ll show up as soon as I can.”

Cas took a few steps backward, smiling at the corner of his mouth, and a second later he was back to giving some grease monkey hell like Dean had never interrupted. Dean watched for a minute, because that was just pretty damn hot.

Once he tore himself away he headed straight to the address Cas had given him, finding the place without too much trouble. It turned out to be a little Craftsman cottage, painted soft yellow and perched atop a stone retaining wall along a narrow road. It was set back a little from the street, hidden behind behind a couple of plumeria.

Dean sat down on the porch and looked to his right, out over rooftops and down to the ocean, where Diamond Head rose up over Waikiki. The wind was warm and floral against his face, with a tang of the ocean. It really was a beautiful town, Honolulu. It would be nice to see it someday without the war and the martial law and the scars of Jap bombs.

It wasn’t a bad way to spend the half-hour or so before Cas arrived. A Jeep pulled up and Cas jumped over the door as the guy behind the wheel called a flip goodbye before hitting the gas again. He took the steps two at a time but slowed as he drew near.

He pulled off his sunglasses, squinting a little in the evening light. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” He pulled a key from his pocket.

“No problem. Glad you could take the time.”

“Come on in.” The house Cas led him into was neat and cozy, if a little… aged.

“You, uh, rent?”

“Borrowed, sort of.” He looked over the room. “Furnished.”

“Yeah, I didn’t see you as the English Rose type.” He nodded to a davenport that looked like The Secret Garden had thrown up all over it. “So... your jacket.” He held it in his hands for a moment and ran his thumbs over it. Good leather, if a little worse for wear, and real silk lining. He’d had a little time to examine it as he’d waited. On the shoulder were the insignia of Cas’s squadron and the wing it was assigned to, the 15th. On the back someone had painted wings and a halo, with a line of Latin beneath. “Prosequor Alis,” he read carefully, and gave Cas an inquisitive look.

Cas stepped close. “The motto of the Fifteenth. ‘I pursue with wings.’”

Dean flipped the coat to show the painted wings and halo and raised an eyebrow.

“On account of my name. I didn’t do it.”

“Angel in a fighter plane, huh?”

“I suppose it fits the work.”

“Funny, I don’t remember any of my mom’s porcelain figurines sitting in P-51s.”

“Read the Bible, Dean. Angels are warriors of God.”

Dean met his eye, and the weight of that look was intense. There was a lot he would’ve liked to have asked about what Cas did, what the war looked like from the air, but he sensed it was best to steer clear.

He handed the jacket over, pressing the back of his hand against Cas’s stomach with the gesture. “Well, I give you boys a lot of credit. Must take a lot of guts, letting the ground get away from you like that.”

“Says the man stationed to a submersible tomb.”

“Touché.”

Cas looked at him for a second like Dean was a present he wasn’t quite sure how to unwrap. Then he tossed his coat over a rose-swathed wingback chair and went to the sideboard. “Want a drink?”

“What do you have?”

“Pretty much everything.”

“Got any Jack?”

“No, but I have good whiskey.”

“Well, la-de-da. I’ll take that.”

As Cas pulled out a tumbler he spoke over his shoulder. “Personally, I’d much rather be up in a plane than down where you operate. At least I can control my fate.” He glanced up. “I’ve hit a couple of Japanese submarines in shallow water. The way they sit there, can’t fight back...” He shook his head. “Not for me.” He shrugged. “Plus, I’m a little claustrophobic, so there’s that.” He handed Dean a glass.

“Well, I’m afraid of heights.”

“Then we’re quite a pair, aren’t we?”

Dean clinked Cas’s glass against his own. “To meeting in the middle.”

Cas stood there, eyes fixed on Dean. He downed whatever was in his glass and took Dean’s away again.

“I wasn’t finished with that.”

“It’s ten years old. It’ll wait a little longer.”

Then Cas was in his arms and Dean tasted the clash of gin and whiskey. Hands were on his belt buckle, somehow simultaneously undoing his fly and pulling his shirt out of his waistband. He realized he was a step behind and leapt to catch up, racing Cas to get his hands on skin.

“Don’t rip the buttons.” Cas hissed. “I just finished fixing Benny’s shirt.”

“Who invented those fucking things, anyway?” He worked them open as deftly as he could manage, which wasn’t very deftly at all. He might’ve lost a couple.

Finally he was pulling Cas’s shirt off, and the undershirt was over his head, pushing his dark hair all out of whack. He held his hands up as Cas did the same to him.

Cas got his hands into Dean’s pants first, and Dean gasped and stilled at the grip on his cock. Cas stood close, kissing his shoulder as he stroked him, left arm wrapped around the small of Dean’s back.

He groaned. “Okay, I’m gonna ruin these pants pretty quick like this.” He pushed Cas back against sedate damask wallpaper and pressed against him, kissing him deep. “Must be a bed around here somewhere.”

“Through there,” Cas gasped, nodding toward a doorway.

They made their way in that general direction, shedding whatever clothing they still wore on the way.

The bed was made with military precision. Cas fumbled one hand out to pull down the spread before twisting Dean around and down onto the covers.

“Wait,” he pressed a finger to Dean’s mouth and disappeared for a moment, and Dean barely had time to flail in the direction he’d gone before Cas was back, something in his hands. Oh, some kind of lube. Good idea.

Cas straddled him and went for Dean’s neck. Somehow, Dean managed to open the canister under the onslaught.

He flipped Cas over onto his back on the bed, feeling him out with fingers that he hoped weren’t cold with whatever ointment that was. He kissed him hard as he fucked him with his fingers.

But Cas was impatient, writhing against him. “Just do it,” he gasped after a minute. “Do it.”

Dean groaned, barely able to think beyond the feel of hot skin on his. He nodded, commanding himself to go slowly. Cas locked him in his legs, and Dean guided himself carefully inside, agonizingly slow.

“Oh, that’s good.” Cas took a shaky breath. “Dean, that’s good.”

God, he wanted to be close. He touched Cas as much as he could, leaning over his body and squeezing him with desperate fingers. He closed his eyes, but that cut him off. He opened them again and found himself meeting a direct blue gaze. Inside Cas, he swelled.

He ran a hand down Cas’s chest, down to his cock, and shook his head in wonder. “You are so fucking beautiful.” He began to move. Cas grabbed for the slats of the headboard and arched his neck backward with a groan. Just the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing under his skin was almost more than Dean could take. He moved faster, working himself into a rhythm.

He tried to make it last even as his body drove him to speed up. He fisted Cas’s erection and pumped in time with his thrusts, barely able to maintain the coordination.

Cas cried out. “Oh, God, I’m not going to last long.”

Dean shook his head desperately. ‘S’okay, me neither.”

He grabbed Cas’s shoulder with his free hand to better leverage his body and sped up, eliciting a groan from Cas.

The sound of that voice. Just the sound drove him crazy. He pressed on, rhythm quickening.

“Dean—” Cas growled. “Wait.”

“Wha—” he breathed, barely comprehending. Cas twisted under him, shifting his leg to the side. Somehow, he had flipped himself without losing Dean. “What, you—”

“Shut up, just go… like this.” He pulled Dean’s arms close around him and held the headboard. Dean didn’t need to be told twice. He clutched Cas, one hand tight on his hip to steady him, and thrust in.

Cas jerked himself off and groaned, the sound very close to Dean’s ear.

“Ugh, Cas, I’m gonna—” Before he could finish the sentence he spasmed and spilled himself into Cas, driving himself all the way in.

Practically crushed against the wall and leaning on the headboard, Cas gasped at the force of the trusts. Dean pressed himself close, maintaining trembling strength to keep himself upright and moving until Cas was coming, too, groans deep and rough.

Once it subsided, Dean let himself slip out and collapsed forward, kissing the back of Cas’s neck. He pulled him down to lay the wrong way across the bed, his arms and legs weak. Cas wrapped himself around Dean, pulling him tight despite the uncomfortable heat.

Dean snaked his arms under Cas’s body and held him. He kissed his sweaty neck, breathing in the smell of Cas’s skin and the clean-laundry scent of his sheets. “You’re something else, you know that?”

Cas chuckled in his ear. “You, too.”

Dean pulled himself up onto his elbows and looked down into Cas’s face. He had a strange, gut-deep feeling like he knew him well, even though in truth Cas wasn’t much less a stranger now than he had been the night before. Maybe they were similar kinds of men, or it was just something the war had done to them—carved the same edges into each of them so they fit together.

Whatever it was, it pulled him like a magnet. He smiled a little as he took in every detail of his face, trying to pin down that strange familiarity, and ran a hand through his misbehaving hair.

Cas turned his head into the caress. “You were right about this. Glad you talked me around.”

“Happy to do it.”

“Thanks for bringing my jacket back.”

“I’ve still gotta see that on you.”

Cas touched his chest with one finger. “Too bad you don’t have your whites. We could play dress-up.”

“I can bring them over tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Who said I was free?”

Dean grinned and kissed him. “Now who’s being coy?”

“Fine, tomorrow.”

“Good. So. Important question.”

“Mm-hm?”

“You got anything to eat around here?”

Cas nodded, looking at Dean a little distantly.

Dean kissed him. “Base to Cas.”

Cas smiled. “Sorry. Food, you said? How’s burgers?”

“He offers me red meat. Cas, can you get any sexier?”

Cas grinned and bucked gently against him. “All right, get off of me and I’ll go get you fed.” As he pushed himself up onto his elbows he reached around and grabbed Dean’s ass. “You’re gonna need your strength.”

“Sexier. Unbelievable.”

 

They spent the rest of the night half-dressed, lazing around the house and eating.

As they did the dishes, Dean learned that the house belonged to friends of Cas’s family who used to visit Honolulu often for some kind of business with the military. They didn’t travel anymore, so Cas was able to arrange to stay there during a rotation through Hickam on his way back out to the Marianas. The owners were happy to have someone keeping the place lived-in. They had even offered to sell it to him for a pretty fair price.

“You didn’t take them up on it? Man, if I had a shot at a place like this I’d be all over it.”

“I don’t even know how long I’ll be in the Service, let alone where I’ll be when all this is over. I haven’t really given it much thought.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Dean nodded, towel slowing as he dried a plate.

Cas gave him a fleeting look.

“I suppose Hawaii is a little far from home, anyway. Where are your people?”

Cas shrugged. “I don’t have much family left. Just an older brother and we’re not close.”

Dean understood that that kind of thing happened in some families, rifts that left blood less than strangers, but he didn’t really understand it. Not that it was his place to judge. “Your parents are, uh…”

“Passed away.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s been a few years.”

"That doesn’t mean anything. My mom died when I was a kid and I still think about her all the time.”

Cas let the thread of conversation whither in an unperturbed silence.

Dean didn’t push it. He reached around him and picked up a cast iron skillet. He whistled. “This baby needs a seasoning. I guess you don’t cook much?”

Cas shook his head and rooted around in the suds for silverware. “Just enough to feed myself. I usually eat at the base.”

“When you’ve got your own kitchen here? That’s a shame.”

“I’d think so, too, if I had you in it to do the actual cooking. As it is, I’m safer in the chow line.”

“Ah, you could cook. Just takes practice. I had to take all that on when I was a kid. I didn’t know a damn thing, but I learned as I went.”

Cas glanced at him. “So you weren’t kidding last night, about raising your brother.”

“Yeah, for a long time it was just me and him, before the farm went belly up and I enlisted. Then I put him up with some friends, just until he went off to college. Did I tell you that? He’s a college boy, too. Penn State. Smart kid.” He shrugged. “Not smart enough to stay out of the war, but you can’t win ‘em all, I guess.”

“You didn’t want him to join up?”

“Of course not. He was supposed to go to fuckin’ law school. We had it all lined up, I even had the money set aside. But after Pearl I couldn’t keep him away from the damn recruiters. He was hell-bent. Hey, you ever check the pilot light on this oven?”

Cas blinked. “For what?”

Dean opened the metal door and ducked into the oven to search out the little blue flame. “I don’t trust gas. I grew up with wood and when wood’s out, it’s out. No invisible fumes filling up your house and blowing you to hell while you sleep.”

“Oh. Well, I haven’t checked it for that, no.” A pause. “So, your father—”

“Went to find work, try to make some cash.”

“Ah. How long was he gone?”

Dean kept his face carefully neutral and shut the oven door. “Seventeen years and counting.”

Cas glanced at him. “Ah,” he said again.

“He’s out there somewhere. Can’t say I left him much to come back to.”

Cas dropped the last of the silverware onto the rack and Dean took up the towel to catch up on drying. “So you did all that on your own—managed the farm, took care of your brother?”

“Remember that part about it all going belly-up.”

“Still, that’s… You were just a kid.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s terrible.” He paused in drying a couple of forks and rested his hand on the countertop. “We come from pretty different places here, so maybe I should explain that he wasn’t the only guy who had to take off. Lots of people did. But I handled it. Sam and I got through.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Just leave it, okay? Not a good subject.”

Cas pulled the plug from the sink. He shook his head and smiled at Dean. “You’re full of shit, you know that?”

An old, familiar monologue screeched to a halt in Dean’s head. “What?”

“You think your résumé doesn’t stack up?” He took the towel from Dean and dried his hands. “When I was seventeen I couldn’t even return a library book on time.”

Dean scoffed. “You went to Oxford.”

“Because my father wrote a check with the right number of zeros on it. Believe me, I was grossly undeserving. I only went to make him happy.”

“Come on,” Dean scowled, unwilling to be patronized.

“Dean, I’m complimenting you. You don’t have to be offended. From where I stand, you deserve some kind of medal.” Cas hooked a finger in the waistband of Dean’s shorts and tugged him closer. “Or at the very least, a really, really good blowjob.”

Dean ran a hand over his eyes. It was such a reflex, going on the defensive. “Sorry. It’s just, people have always been pretty down on my dad. I don’t want you thinking he was some kind of asshole.” Why the fuck it mattered what Cas thought, this guy he had known for less than twenty-four hours, Dean didn’t consider too closely.

“Well, I’ll give him this, he raised one hell of a son.”

Dean felt his face heat up. He eyed the door. He felt an instinctive need to flee, but he didn’t want to leave, not really. “Yeah, whatever you say. My turn to change the subject, okay?”

Cas watched him, his hands resting on the edge of the sink behind him. Dean could practically see him weighing his curiosity against his own reticence. He took a breath and gave in. “Fair enough.”

“So what do you want to do? You got some cards or something? Want to play poker?”

“For money?”

“For whatever you want.”

“Hm.” Cas tilted in his head in that thoughtful way he had, like he was reading something written across Dean that nobody else could see. “I have something to show you.”

He disappeared into the living room, returning before Dean could follow. He had a small book in hand.

“Neruda.”

“What’s that?”

“Who’s that. Remember last night, I was trying to recall a poem?”

“We’re gonna do poetry now? Farm boy, remember?”

Cas smiled as he flipped through pages. “Don’t worry, it’s short. And it’s not in English.”

Dean snorted. “Oh. Great. Even better.”

“Here it is. _Inclinado en las tardes_.”

He had been planning to toss out some smartass remark about poetry, but even hearing those few words twist their way off of Cas’s tongue, he only got as far as, “Spanish.”

“Spanish.” Cas affirmed, amused. “Ready?”

Dean swallowed. “Sure. Fire away.”

Cas began to read.

_“Inclinado en las tardes tiro mis tristes redes_  
 _a tus ojos oceánicos_  
 _Allí se estira y arde en la más alta hoguera_  
 _mi soledad que da vueltas los brazos como un náufrago.”_

He looked up from the book then and recited straight to Dean, by heart.

_“Hago rojas señales sobre tus hojos ausentes_  
 _que olean como el mar a la orilla de un faro.”_

Cas closed the book absently and set it aside.

_“Sólo guardas tinieblas, hembra distante y mía,_  
 _de tu mirada emerge a veces la costa del espanto.”_

He wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck.

_“Inclinado en las tardes echo mis tristes redes_  
 _a ese mar que sacude tus ojos oceánicos.”_

Dean pulled him in tight and kissed him, hushing him for a moment.

Cas barely pulled his lips away enough to speak, murmuring intently like Dean was understanding every word, and maybe he was, or close enough.

_“Los pájaros nocturnos picotean las primeras estrellas_  
 _que centellean como mi alma cuando te amo.”_

Dean brought his hands up, held Cas’s face in his hands.

Cas whispered, “That’s all I remember.”

They found themselves gazing at one another, neither of them flinching or breaking, not even for a second. Dean marveled that they could do this, just stare straight at each other, like it was some kind of normal activity that people did with other people in place of talking.

Then Cas pushed gently against him and walked him backward, until Dean’s back bumped against an outdated wall calendar of illustrated Bible verses. He grasped Dean’s wrists and lifted them, holding them against the striped wallpaper over Dean’s head and knocking down a clock with a black cat on it. He pressed into him, letting him feel the hard lines of his body.

“So. Poetry,” Dean said.

Cas nodded and claimed his mouth. Oh, man, that tongue. No more talking, not in any language.

 

That night, Cas had a nightmare. Dean woke up disoriented, thinking someone else was in the room with them, but it was Cas calling something unintelligible in the dark. He struggled in the sheets, drenched in sweat, until Dean shook him awake. He blinked in the moonlight, wide-eyed and still until he got his bearings. Then without a word, he rolled out of bed and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Dean gave him a couple of minutes before he followed and knocked softly. When no response came, he turned the knob.

Cas sat on the lid of the toilet, head in his hands. An open pill bottle sat on the edge of the sink beside him.

Dean picked it up and read the label. Pentobarbital. Goofballs. The Marines handed out this kind of thing like penny candy, trying to prop men up so they’d hold it together long enough for the final push in the tropical heat. But guys needed a little smoothing out in every branch of service, apparently.

He put the bottle back in the medicine cabinet and rested a steady hand on the back of Cas’s neck. “That’s not gonna help. Come on. Come back to bed.”

Cas allowed himself to be led back and dressed in a dry T-shirt, pliant but closed off. When they lay back down, Dean pulled him close to his body and held him, the way Cas always seemed to want him to, even if the air was too warm and still. Cas didn’t wake again, and they never said another word about it.

 

  
Dean woke up next to Cas for the second morning in a row, this time with his arm wrapped around his waist. He shifted and Cas opened groggy eyes as he moved.

“Morning,” Dean said, looking blearily at the clock. Five minutes before the alarm was supposed to go off.

“You drooled on me.” Cas looked seriously up at him, wiping his neck, tone incongruous with eyes still puffy with sleep and typically mussed hair.

“So much for romance.”

“Guess we’re left with the sex.” Cas rolled over onto him, going straight for his ear. He was already half-hard.

“Ugh. Don’t do this to me. I don’t have time.”

“You’re the captain, right? They can’t start without you.”

“If I’m late, I don’t get to give them hell when they are.”

“It’s the captain’s prerogative to be arbitrary.” Cas thrust against him as his mouth progressed down his neck, and Dean’s stupid fucking body responded enthusiastically to the call.

He groaned. “Cas!”

“Fine,” Cas sighed, and rolled himself off. When he stood, his boxers were prominently tented. “Tomorrow you better set the alarm for earlier.” He stalked off toward the bathroom.

Dean almost reminded him that he was leaving tomorrow, but he shut his mouth.

So, one more day. Then he was back in it.

He took a deep breath and listened to Cas brush his teeth. It dawned on him that he understood what Cas had meant about making it harder to go back. Somehow, all this had started to seem normal. But really, it was just a reprieve, a wayside. No getting comfortable. There was plenty more war to go.

Dean dragged himself up and went to the kitchen to get the percolator going. He grabbed the paper off the porch and unfolded it on the counter, scanning the headlines for news about the European front. Shit was still hitting the fan in Belgium. He didn’t know where Sam was anymore. Could be anywhere. Could be right in the middle of that.

The air was beginning to smell like coffee when Cas came up behind him, adding the scent of soap to the mix. He wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist and rested his cheek on his shoulder.

Dean covered his hands with one of his. “What do you want to do tonight? Should we go out somewhere?”

“No.”

“You know when you’re shipping out yet?”

“The ninth.”

“Well, at least now you know where to pick up a submariner for a few days of fun. Maybe I can get you a guest pass into the Royal Hawaiian.”

Cas smiled against his shoulder and shook his head. “Thanks, but I think I’m spoiled for all sailors now. Better quit while I’m ahead.”

“Guess you’ll just have to sit here and pine.” He turned around to face him and ran his hands down Cas’s arms, grabbing his wrists lightly. “What’s your day like? Want to come down to the _Colt_ for a tour? Should be lots going on.”

“I wish I could. Things are hectic.”

Dean hid his disappointment. He understood, no need to make things difficult. “What time should I meet you back here?”

“I’ll probably be late. Let’s say 1900.”

“Okay then. Nineteen hundred. Coffee?”

Cas nodded, and they got on with their morning.

 

  
It was closer to 2100 by the time the Jeep pulled up and let Cas off. Dean had sat there on the porch as the sun went down, his bags stacked beside him, frustration building as the wait went from minutes to hours.

But as Cas trudged up the steps, defeat in the lines of his shoulders, the scowl melted off Dean’s face and the indignant monologue he had prepared slipped away.

“I’m sorry.” Cas got his key out, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey. It’s okay. You made it.” Dean followed him in. The place was dark.

“You must be hungry.” Cas disappeared into the kitchen. He was pulling cans out of the cupboard by the light of a fluorescent lamp above the stove when Dean caught up with him. “Is something simple okay? I’m low on supplies, didn’t have time to stop.”

“Sure, that’s fine.”

Cas set a can of tomato sauce on the counter. “I couldn’t get away. I’m sorry.”

“I know. You can stop apologizing. You would’ve been here if you could’ve been.”

“Wasted time.” He said softly, more to himself than Dean.

“Hey.” Dean flicked on the overhead light. “So what? We’re here now and we’ve got a whole night ahead of us, so knock it off with the moping and we’ll make the most of it. You got some music here somewhere?”

“There’s a record player in the other room,” Cas replied in a monotone. “But I don’t know if there’s anything worth playing.”

“I’m on it.” Dean moved through the house, closing curtains and flipping on every light he could find. Morale qualified as a perfectly justifiable use of excessive electricity, he figured. The record player was in the corner of the living room and a cupboard beneath it held a bunch of albums. The selection was looking a little sparse until Dean flipped almost to the end of the stack.

Bingo. Hello, Glenn. Everybody had Glenn.

In the kitchen, Cas was putting noodles in a pot to boil when the first notes emanated from the living room. He looked up and smiled to see Dean behind him, silently holding out a hand.

 _Moonlight Serenade_. No refusing.

They danced right there in the kitchen, slow and close. They moved well together, no surprise. Despite his terrible posture, Cas turned out to be pretty light on his feet, responding to Dean’s lead like he’d been doing it that way all his life. If it hadn’t been for the formica table in the middle of the room, Dean might’ve spun him around a little, tried a few moves.

“You got poetry,” he whispered in Cas’s ear. “I got Glenn.”

Cas pulled him in tight, and after a minute they didn’t dance so much as rock in place, clutching each other.

“Dean, remember that thing you said back at the hotel, about this having an expiration date?”

“Yeah. I was full of shit, wasn’t I?”

“I wasn’t going to put it like that.”

“But that’s what you meant.”

“Basically.”

“So.”

“So…”

“I don’t know, Cas, I don’t have any grand plan to offer here.”

They were both silent for a while, calculating months and likelihoods in their heads. Nothing came out too promising.

“I guess we keep in touch?” Cas said. “Unless you can come up with a reason to stow a claustrophobic pilot aboard a submarine.”

“Nothing comes to mind. I’d put you in the galley but you’d probably give us food poisoning.”

“That’s wise. Sure you’re afraid of heights? I’ve got a little leg room in my Mustang. Wouldn’t mind a lap-warmer.”

“You’d mind when I start screaming my brains out.”

“No, you see, you’d be too busy with fellatio.”

Dean snorted. “Okay. So we write. See how things go.” Dean squeezed him gently. “Meet up if we can. Whatever people say, I don’t see any sign that this thing is wrapping up anytime soon. So you never know. We’ll just play it by ear.”

“Play it by ear,” Cas said with a sigh. “I guess it’ll be something to look forward to.” He didn’t sound satisfied, but it wasn’t like they had a ton of options. “Look at me, promising letters to my sweetheart at sea.”

“Sweetheart, eh? That’s pretty serious.”

“Sounds better than two-night stand.”

“Here’s to night three, whenever we get around to it.”

Cas thought for a moment, then looked up with very serious eyes. “Dean, you know what this means.”

“What?”

“We’re going to need some code words for sex acts.”

 

  
Dean did wake Cas up early the next morning, and they made love one last time before Dean showered and put on his dress whites, which Cas nearly peeled off of him again. Eventually, he managed to disentangle himself from one pretty damn handsy fighter pilot and get himself together. He swung his seabag over his shoulder and stood over the bed, where Cas had laid himself out unfairly naked and beautiful, like it wasn’t hard enough to walk out the door already.

Dean cupped Cas’s cheek, running a thumb along his cheekbone. This wasn’t going to be a big production. “Give ‘em hell out there.”

Cas smiled a cocky smile and grabbed his hand, pulling Dean down for one last kiss. “You, too.”

Dean turned away but paused in the doorway. “And get your ass back home in one piece.”

Cas’s smile faded. He nodded.

Dean watched him, getting one last, long look in. Then he winked and took off, and that was it—until whenever.

Outside, he tossed his duffel into the back of his Jeep on the way to the driver’s seat. Maybe it was asking too much of statistics that he and Cas would ever see each other again.

It was easy to say you’ll write, do the “maybe someday” routine, then blame the war and kick the can down the road until it’s too far out of sight to remember. Hell, he’d done it himself after countless shore leaves in as many ports. But this one had a different ring to it. Even if he’d heard himself saying all the same words, they had sounded different in his ears. They had come from a different place.

He paused. It stood to reason that Cas had probably heard them before.

But Cas would know he’d meant it. Even if he’d kept it light, it was because neither of them needed to get bogged down in something heavy. Cas could read him. He'd get it.

Dean sat in the driver’s seat with his hands on the wheel and looked back at the house.

Okay, two more minutes wouldn’t hurt the war effort any.

He knocked.

Cas answered in a sheet and a half-grin. “I know it was good, Dean, but that’s no reason to go AWOL.”

“Look—” Dean drew himself up. “What I said, all those things—I just want to make sure you know what I mean.”

Cas looked bemused. “I thought I did. Now I’m less sure.”

“Well, I meant it. About everything. It’s not just words.”

Cas stilled. The smile faded away.

Dean tugged gently at the sheet. “There’s gonna be a next time. This isn’t it for us.” He met Cas’s gaze. “I just needed you to hear that before I go. Okay?”

“Okay, Dean.”

He nodded. Cas had heard him. “Okay. Good. So… I’ll see you.”

He turned to go, but his arm was yanked back and then his breath was gone as his mouth was covered, hot and wet. A noise came up from his throat and he took a staggering step into the house, another, until Cas’s back landed against something solid enough to hold up to the force of Dean’s body on his.

Dean didn’t go easy on him. He put everything into that kiss—hands, tongue, hips, hot and rushing breath. Nobody was ever going to kiss this man so well. He couldn’t say it but he needed Cas to feel it—to know in his bones that nothing else would live up to this.

He broke it off, finally, feeling the time of day tug at him. “Okay, I’ve—” He cleared his throat when his voice didn’t kick in. “I’ve got to go.”

Cas swallowed. “Yeah, okay.”

Dean felt a little pride in how dazed he looked. He ran the pad of his thumb over the cleft of Cas’s chin. “See you on the other side.”

Cas smiled and let him leave, holding his hand until their fingers were pulled apart by distance.

He wasn’t used to thinking like this, considering the possibility of later. Again. After. It was sort of a rule he had set for himself. Well, he’d broken it now, shattered it into a thousand pieces. That made him nervous, like he’d jinxed it just by acknowledging he wanted it. He wasn’t the kind of guy who got things he wanted, especially not things that were hard to get.

He put the Jeep into gear, forcing his eyes forward and his thoughts to shift toward his command. Get this done, make it through, and maybe something would still be there. Maybe not. He didn’t have to think too much about it. He didn’t have to set his heart on anything. It was just a possibility. Possibility couldn’t be a bad thing.

As he drove down the hill and away from that yellow house, he found himself eager to put out to sea like he hadn’t been since he was a cadet, definitely not since he’d stepped into Bobby’s shoes as commander. Because the sooner they got this thing wrapped up, the sooner… well, the sooner he could consider something else. There didn’t need to be anything more to it than that.

By late afternoon the crew had gone through the usual rigamarole—official photos and send-offs from the brass and all the rest of the BS, which a seasoned bunch of guys like this didn’t find particularly rousing. But they were on their best behavior for him, making sure everything went without a hitch as he took them out for the first time as their skipper. The gentle handling wouldn’t last, he knew. But the gesture was nice. It meant something.

By six, they were shipshape and ready to go.

Dean let Benny take her out, preferring to stand on the bridge and watch the shore disappear, a cigarette in hand.

Just as they got underway, a Jeep pulled up along the docks. Dean grinned as a familiar form in khaki stepped out. Cas took off his sunglasses, and they were still close enough that Dean could make out his smile and shrug. Cas shoved one hand into his pocket and raised the other in a brief farewell.

Dean saluted in reply, the cigarette still lodged between his fingers.

Cas crossed his arms and leaned back against the hood of the Jeep. They stayed like that for a long time, until they were lost to each other in the haze of dusk on the water.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

He wouldn’t have remembered his birthday at all, except for a nightmare. Not exactly a nightmare, really. In nightmares, pieces of reality were torn apart and sewn back together into a terrifying something else. This was just a memory, one he relieved in his sleep when things got shitty.

It was his ninth birthday, the first after his mother died, and Sam was so sick they thought they were going to lose him, too. That was the day he’d found the new pine boards his father had hidden in the barn. Dean had already learned what pine boards were for.

At the dinner table that night he pictured his brother boxed inside them as he listened to the long silences between every gasping breath Sam took. He began to cry and couldn’t stop, not even when he was ordered to shut his mouth. Dean knew what was coming when his father came resolutely around the table. John lifted him out of his chair by one arm and gave him such a licking that it hurt to sit back down again. His father got his silence.

He woke up with the sound of John’s boots on the wooden floor still heavy in his ears and gone straight to the galley and told Vic he didn’t want any birthday anything.

Vic had looked up from pouring a pitcher of water into the coffeemaker and gave him a measured look. “Yeah, okay,” he nodded. “Maybe when there’s some good news, huh?”

“Yeah.” Dean had nodded. “Sure. When there’s news.”

So he spent his birthday crammed in his quarters, avoiding his crew so he wouldn’t have to see the looks on their faces. He didn’t blame them for their sympathy, but he couldn’t look at it.

It was worse, now that there was nothing to do but wait.

They had been four weeks in, with four targets down, and in a move that had to represent one of the worst ideas ever shat out of the khaki-clad assholes at ComSubPac, the _Colt_ was diverted from its hunt. As of two days ago, she was relegated to sheepdog duty around a little death-trap of an island known as Iwo Jima. The Allies needed a stepping stone for their bombers on the way to Japan, and Iwo was it. The swarm around the island was getting thicker by the day.

Receiving that order had been the first time Dean had lost it, really lost it, since he’d gotten the news.

“FUBAR, Benny. That’s what this is. Fucking bullshit.” He had slammed the slip of paper onto the table of the ward room, right in front of his XO. “It’s not like we ain’t shaking ‘em loose out here. Four hits in less than a month,” he heard his voice shake. “Including a motherfucking tanker. Who else is pulling that off? And we’re the ones lifeguarding? Jesus, you’d think they’d at least have the brains to send somebody who’s been coming up dry.”

Benny had sighed. He didn’t relish this either, maybe in part because it entailed so much bitching from Dean. But he was walking on eggshells around the captain these days, just like everybody else. “I hear you, brother. It is bullshit. But what’re you gonna do?”

Dean snorted and turned away. Obey orders, that was what he was gonna do. Because that was what he always did, even though his skin crawled at the thought. He paced in a small circle and ran a hand over his head.

He swung a hand at the bulkhead, hard. He felt the force of it in the joints of his fingers. His skin burned. He hit it again, again. It still wasn’t enough. He looked for something else, something he could break.

“Christ. Dean.”

“What?” Louder than he had meant.

Benny leaned over the table and dropped his voice to a rasp, mindful of the ever-present ears of the crew, mouthing the words more than speaking them. “You gotta get a grip on yourself. You can’t be doing this.” He gestured to Dean’s fighting stance, his blue eyes wide.

Every shred of Dean wanted to really let fly—yell, maybe grab Benny’s collar and give him a tooth-rattling shake. Punch that rationality right off his face. He clenched his hand into a fist in his pocket, feeling bitter words fight their way up out of the empty place growing in his chest.

But he fought it back. Because the cold, hard truth was, Benny was right. And everything he’d said, Dean already heard from a gruff voice in his head that told him he was off the rails.

“You know you got every man on this boat at your back, Dean. But they’re looking to you. You’ve gotta keep it together for them.”

Dean shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could practically see Bobby in front of him, giving him that hard stare he saved for when he was truly pissed off and wanted to make absolutely sure something sunk through Dean’s thick skull. That’s what the Old Man would’ve been doing at this very moment if he hadn’t bit it, Dean was sure of it. Through a hundred of those looks and years of example, Dean had learned to command. And here he was, still managing to fuck it all up.

“Okay, yeah. Yeah, I hear you.”

He had ordered the change of course without comment, taking the _Colt_ off to her appointed coordinates to be deflated by the prospect of days, maybe weeks of quiet. Poison for the hot, cramped quarters of a submarine where tempers could fray even under the best of circumstances. Which these were not.

And that left him passing the spare hours of his days trapped in his thoughts, the absolute last place he wanted to be. A fucking coward, hiding from his own men because he didn’t want them to see how loose his screws were getting.

He sat for hours at the desk in the cabin that he still thought of as Bobby’s. The chair was too small and the metal seat didn’t do it any favors, but it had privacy and that beat all on a submarine.

He’d never felt compelled to drink on a patrol before, not even when they’d lost Bobby. Now it was all he could do to keep himself out of the contraband stash of celebratory whiskey. If the rest of the boat hadn’t been packed to the gills, and if it wouldn’t have told everybody exactly what was going on in his head, he would have moved the crates out of the cabin.

He could see the time coming when Benny would tell him that maybe he needed a little break, maybe he should step back for a bit. And that would be it. They’d never let him come back. One and done.

_Not your fault, Bobby. You gave it your best shot._

He owed Cas a letter. He wasn’t in the habit of writing anybody and it didn’t come easy. He and Sam had never been much for that kind of thing, except when something big happened. But he’d told Cas he’d write, and that wasn’t going to let that be a hollow promise. He’d already gotten two, and he’d barely scratched out one. Not even a good one. He was shit at letters. Should’ve thought of that before.

Not for the first time, he made himself pull out a piece of stationery and a pen. The _Colt_ ’s decal blurred in the top margin.

No words came. Just a big nothing.

He crumpled the paper and held his head in his hands.

The quiet stretched on. The whole boat was tense and waiting.

Finally, one afternoon as Dean leaned against the wall in the mess, sucking cup after cup of black coffee in an effort to jolt himself awake before going on duty, Ash swung up behind him from the radio shack and a piece of a paper materialized in front his face. For just a second Dean’s heart flipped, but it was only coordinates scrawled out in Ash’s uneven writing.

“We have ourselves a customer, Captain.”

Dean hid the burn of disappointment and clicked into gear, following Ash back through the hatch and on to the control room. He handed the paper off to Garth, who was on as Officer of the Dive. “Looks like our services are required.”

It wasn’t far. They’d been stationed as close to the action as command could put them without risking the boat unnecessarily. About twenty minutes later, they were floating in clear Pacific waters, the deck crew nervously watching the aircraft roaring above for anything unfriendly.

Out on the bridge, Dean squinted as another squadron cut over them. “Hey, Benny? Let’s get some stars and stripes out here. I don’t want to get strafed by friendlies.” Benny sent Adam in for a flag and the two of them tacked it to the deck as the lookouts scanned the horizon.

“Whole lotta nothing, far as I can tell,” Ash called.

“Keep looking,” Benny ordered.

“Maybe there’s nothing left to see.”

Another minute went by, and Adam called down from periscope shears. “Uh, sir, there’s something.” He pointed off toward the horizon. “But no movement.”

“Shit,” Benny spat and called in a bearing. The boat began to maneuver. “Chuck, get the bow planes out.”

Dean stood close to Benny. “Jesus, no more goddamn corpses. Last thing I need.”

As Zeddmore spun the plane control down below, two black wings swung out from their resting place along the hull, poised like fins, coming to rest just at the surface.

“Wait, wait, there’s movement!” Adam called. He was the new guy on this patrol, excited at his first trip to the rodeo.

Benny handed Dean his binoculars, and sure enough, the chute was flat in the water, but someone was trying to keep their head up under the weight of their gear.

“Where the hell is Campbell? Fucking Pharmacist’s Mate, what, he got somewhere else to be right now?” Dean looked around. “Benny, get your jacket on. You’re going in. Me and Ash’ll spot you.”

“Me? What about Chuck?”

“Chuck doesn’t know how to swim.”

Benny looked at Chuck, open-mouthed. “How are you even on a submarine?”

Chuck shrugged defensively. “Hey, man, if we get hit I’d rather drown than get tortured to death.”

“Brother, you owe me one.” Benny snatched up a lifejacket as Ash tied off a line. Dean grabbed his own jacket and secured it around himself.

“Better hurry up, guys,” Adam called down.

Dean and Benny climbed down to the deck. Chuck called in headings, and they maneuvered delicately toward the target.

As the boat pulled up near the chute, Benny angled down the plane and dropped into the water, bracing himself with a tight grip on the line. Lifeguarding wasn’t flashy work, but that didn’t make it easy, or safe. Dean stood by, hands on the rope. He could hear Benny calling over the wind and waves, no reply. When Benny emerged and lugged up a heavy-looking mass of silk behind him, Dean felt exhausted. Another dead body. Another tally.

“Hey, Dean, I need a hand cuttin’ him out. Better get Campbell up here.”

Dean looked over his shoulder for Christian, but didn’t see him coming. The guy was in for it. He swung himself over the edge, pulling out his pocket knife as he went.

He edged out on the slick surface of the plane, kneeling beside Benny and grabbing the pilot’s arm to steady himself, reaching for the chute tangled around the body.

He glanced at the body. Nice face, if pale and dead-looking.

He froze halfway through a line. He looked back.

That face, that face he knew.

“Cas?”

He hadn’t recognized him at first, soaked and grey and waterlogged in Benny’s arms, but that was him. Holy fuck, it was him. He shook Cas’s arm, nearly throwing Benny back into the water.

“Dean!”

“Holy shit. Benny, I know this guy!”

“Yeah, I gather, but you gotta cut him out!”

“Okay,” he said, his voice suddenly shaking. “Okay.” He sawed violently at the chute’s straps with clumsy fingers, praying he didn’t drop the knife. “Okay, Cas, don’t worry,” he murmured. “We’re getting you out. We’re getting you out. We got you.”

Cas didn’t move.

Dean kept glancing back at his face, not entirely sure that he wasn’t hallucinating. Isn’t that the kind of thing a person’s brain could start to do under circumstances like this, when you were already going off the deep end? Wish somebody was there and all of the sudden some dead pilot has their face?

But every time he looked, even when he blinked, it was still Cas.

The second the lines were cut away he was on his feet, scrambling back up onto the deck, Ash pulling as hard as he could to drag them up and over. Benny followed, and Dean reached back behind him to take Cas, dragging him to relative safety. Cas was soaked and heavy in his flightsuit, but Dean barely felt the weight.

As Dean laid him out and pulled frantically at the buttons on Cas’s life jacket he screamed toward the bridge, “Where the fuck is Campbell?!” Just then Christian leaped out of the conning tower and scaled down to the deck.

Dean glared daggers at him but set the real reaming aside for later. Campbell went to work with an apologetic glance, rolling Cas onto his chest and pulling his flight jacket off him.

“Come on, Cas, come on,” Dean murmured, forcing himself to stay out of the way. Benny hovered somewhere behind him. “Don’t do this.” Oh, God, please don’t do this.

“You know him?” Campbell asked, pressing down on Cas’s back with straight arms.

Dean had seen this done to drowning men before. He’d never see it save anybody. “Just… focus. Fucking focus.”

Campbell’s eyes snapped back to his work. He kept it up, releasing and pressing again.

The feeling had gone out of Dean’s limbs. He slumped to sit on the deck. If Cas died in front of him like this, that was it. He wasn’t getting back up.

“Cas. Hey.” He reached out to hold the cuff of Cas’s flightsuit, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Hey. You gotta come back.”

Campbell gave him an edgy look, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Benny make tight fists where he knelt. There was only the sound of sloshing water along the hull and Campbell’s fast breaths.

Things slowed down. Dean felt the world recede.

And then there was a beautiful, wet sucking sound and a fountain of water was spewing from Cas’s mouth. He drew air into his lungs with desperate, noisy gasps and lurched, clawing at the deck.

Dean surged in, clutching Cas’s flightsuit. “Hey. Hey, yeah. Come on, that’s it.”

Someday, when Dean looked back on his life to take stock of the most beautiful sights he’d ever seen, right up at the top was going to be this half-drowned pilot throwing up all over his boat.

Cas rolled himself onto his back with a groan, eyes still closed, coughing. One hand grasped weakly at the deck; the other wrapped around his chest.

“Come on now,” Dean said, patting his cheek, “let’s see those baby blues.”

Cas frowned and finally, finally, his eyes blinked open. He squinted against the sun.

“Hey, Cas.”

“Dean?” His head tilted against the deck, hair spiked with water.

“Yeah, that’s right.” He grinned.

“Am I dead?”

Dean laughed, and even he heard the edge of hysteria in it. “If that’s what you think, you got a pretty shitty idea of heaven.”

Dazed blue eyes tried to focus on the sky. “I had to ditch,” he murmured hoarsely.

“Yeah, you did, straight into our laps.” He was going to laugh, or maybe cry. A weird grin was plastered across his face. “So a fallen angel now, huh?”

“What?” Cas stared in confusion. He coughed again, finishing with a harsh gasp and a grimace. Dean grabbed his hand. His fingers were cold.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Cas blinked, his lashes wet. “I think I’m gonna pass out.”

Dean glanced at Christian, but he didn’t seem worried. “It’s all right, we got you.”

“Okay. Okay, good.” As Cas’s eyes rolled and slipped shut Dean wiped the water droplets off his face, barely remembering not to kiss him.

A stretcher had emerged from inside the boat and Christian was positioning it on the deck. Dean squeezed Cas’s hand one more time and released it, reluctantly moving aside to let Christian work.

He stood on shaky legs and took a deep breath. He looked from Cas to his boat, to Benny. “All right, take us below the second he’s through the hatch. And radio this in, would you? The rest of that squadron up there is gonna want to know.”

Benny acknowledged the order and started for the conning tower, dropping a hand on Dean’s shoulder as he passed.

Dean glanced up as a few more planes went by overhead. Somewhere up there, somebody was losing it. _It’s okay, guys, we got him._

Everything that had been wrong an hour before was still wrong. But things had almost gotten so much worse, and just for once in his fucking life, they didn’t. He shut his eyes and smiled. Not because everything was okay, but because it had just been too damn long since there had been anything worth the effort.

 

Christian, probably realizing that he was in the shithouse with Dean in the worst possible way, gave Cas the most attentive care Dean had ever seen anybody cobble together out of the limited resources in the hands of a submarine doc. “Doc” was an exaggeration in Christian’s case, since the guy had never so much as glimpsed the inside of a medical school, but “Doc” was what you called the guy who kept the stash of bandages and morphine, and on the _Colt_ , that was Christian.

“Really, that’s him?” Benny asked Dean quietly, peering into Dean’s cabin, where they’d put Cas since it was the only private quarters aboard. “Flight jacket guy?”

“The one and only.” Dean pointed to a hook above the foot of the bed where the jacket hung dripping, the painted wings a little worse for wear. “Look familiar?”

“Hey, that little maneuver worked out pretty well. You oughta give it a shot yourself one of these days, now that you’ve got a pilot owing you a couple of favors.”

“Some of us do just fine without playing dress-up, Benny.”

Cas cracked open an eyelid beneath the mountain of blankets Campbell had piled on him. “Could you two take your banter someplace else?” He still sounded hoarse. “I’m recovering from a near-death experience over here.”

“Healthy enough to be bitchy.” Dean shrugged. “Good sign.”

Benny laughed and took off, heading back to his post in the conning tower.

Christian was putting away a stethoscope. “Just a few cracked ribs. I’ve seen a lot worse. You won’t be moving much for a week or so and we’re going to have to watch for pneumonia, but all things considered, you’re not in bad shape. I’ll give you something to take the edge off, help you breathe easier. Might want to get you up on deck when we can, too. Submarine air is shit, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Yes, I noticed.”

“Ah, you can barely smell it after three or four days,” Dean said from the hall. Sometimes he forgot just how rank a submarine was to a newcomer. Diesel, sweat and cigarette smoke made for a pretty heady aroma.

Cas wrinkled his nose and grimaced. “I’m hoping I’ll be unconscious.”

Christian had the morphine ready to go. “Don’t worry about that.”

“Hey, tough it out for a little bit, okay, Cas? I want to talk to you for a minute.”

Christian looked up and recognized his cue for once, gathering up his kit. “I’ll be down the hall. Let me know.” He shut the door behind him, and Dean made sure it was locked.

Cas turned his head on the pillow. “How long ‘til I can get back to the base?”

“Well, hello to you, too, Cas.” Dean replied, pulling up a chair. “Nice to see you.”

The second their eyes met Cas’s expression softened and some of the tense survivor dropped away. He relaxed slightly deeper into the bedding. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean rested his arms on knees and scratched a thumbnail absently. “Meeting in the middle again, huh?”

A smile flickered across Cas’s face. “Hell of a coincidence.”

Dean blew out a deep breath. “It’s more than a coincidence. It’s fucking nuts, is what it is. So how do you like my boat?”

Cas looked around, his lips pressed together. “As an alternative to drowning?”

“Hey now.” He tried to disguise his hurt as insincere.

“I haven’t seen much of it, Dean. But it’s certainly… compact.”

“Oh. Right. The space thing.” He glanced around.

Not much he could do about the lack of elbow room. He thought of this cabin as pretty spacious, but to anybody who wasn’t used to living life as a human sardine it probably resembled an ice box more than anything else. A pretty crammed one, too. Except for the torpedoes and machinery, the _Colt_ was basically three hundred feet of steel stuffed with half the Sears-Roebuck catalog and a pantry to feed eighty. Unoccupied space meant food you weren’t feeding your crew, spare parts you didn’t have on hand. An unaffordable luxury on a submarine operating alone in the middle of the Pacific.

“Well, we’ll keep you in here, but I’m afraid it’s the best I can do. Most of the bunks on this boat, you can’t even sit up straight.”

“And this is the captain’s quarters.”

“Penthouse suite, baby.”

Cas raised his eyebrows and let out a careful breath, withholding further comment. “So where will you sleep?”

He shrugged. “I’ll go hotbunk in the crew’s quarters for a few days, grab whatever’s open. It’ll be like old times.”

“You do that for all the downed pilots?”

“Nah.” Dean tugged at the blanket. “Only the ones that scare the living shit out of me.”

Cas absorbed that, eyes fixed on Dean’s face. “I suppose it won’t be so bad. No one whose bed I’d rather share.”

Dean gave him a half-smile. “Anytime.”

A weighted moment passed between them before Cas blinked, his expression growing serious. “Dean, I need to know. How long until you can get me back?”

Dean didn’t allow it to bother him that Cas was so concerned with how fast he could leave again. Cas had friends back there and he’d left them behind in the middle of God only knew what. Dean would be the same way if something dragged him off his boat. Probably a hell of a lot worse.

He took a breath. Cas wasn’t going to like this one. “Well, when pilots come aboard they’re generally in for the duration of the patrol.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that depending on our orders and how fast the Army can get you back out from Pearl, you’ll probably hit the Marianas… early April sometime?”

“No.” Cas gave him a glassy stare. “ _April_? That’s too long.”

Dean shrugged. “This ain’t a taxi, Cas, and there’s a lot of ocean out there. They can’t waylay submarines to shuffle airmen around. Best we can do is save your asses.” And if Dean was quietly thrilled about that, well, it didn’t hurt anybody.

“There must be a way.” Cas struggled to sit up. “We’re not that far.”

Dean pressed him back down without trying too hard. “You could barely make it to the head on your own right now, let alone handle the stick on a P-51.” He patted Cas’s thigh. “Come on, you’re not out of commission. You’re just gonna be serving in a different branch for a while.”

Cas sighed as deeply as his ribs would allow and stared at the overhead. “I don’t like this.”

“Well, it’s not the reunion I had in mind, either. Could’ve done without seeing you half-dead on my deck, for one thing.” He held his hands out, presenting himself with a small smile and a raised eyebrow. “But I think you may be overlooking a fringe benefit here.”

Cas huffed, firing a pretty attractive scowl at Dean. “You obviously have a conflict of interest.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Maybe you enjoy having me around.”

“So I’m going to keep you here against your will.”

Cas shrugged, smiling wryly.

A grin spread across Dean’s face. “Like some kind of underwater sex prisoner?”

Cas snorted and clutched his ribs. “Ah.”

“Sorry.” He leaned in and kissed him, still not quite believing that this was actually Cas, here in his bunk. “I get it. You know if there was something I could do, I’d do it.”

Cas grew solemn and looked at the overhead, probably thinking about things happening far above, on the other side of that hull. “Yeah, I know,” he whispered. He met Dean’s eye. “Thank you, by the way. Glad you were in the neighborhood.”

“Me, too.” Dean pulled back and looked at his hands in his lap. He didn’t want to think too much about that, about what would’ve happened if they’d been further away. “You know, I was just writing you. Trying, anyway. Kind of wishing I had you here.”

“Someone heard, apparently.”

“Maybe. Maybe they did. ‘Cause I’ve really needed—” That was as far as his voice would go. He stared at his hands, waiting for his throat to loosen up.

Cas touched his knee. “What happened, Dean?”

Dean lifted his head. “Sam’s MIA.”

Cas let out a heavy breath, seeming to deflate against the pillow. “Oh. Dean…”

Hearing the words out of his own mouth made them sharper, more real. “Been over a week since they told me, but not a word since. Nothing’s coming through.”

Cas touched his face, just a couple of fingers on his cheek.

He felt his throat tighten up. “I’m kind of losing it here.”

Cas reached out to wrap a hand around the back of his neck and Dean allowed himself to be pulled in.

For a long moment he stayed there, his temple pressed against the soft skin of Cas’s neck. He clutched him probably a little tighter than he should, but Cas didn’t pull away. Dean closed his eyes, grateful that Cas didn’t tell him it was going to be okay.

 

Dean didn’t stay too long. Cas really did need the morphine and Dean needed to get back on duty. He stayed just until Christian showed up and brandished a needle, and then headed back to his post.

He meant to go back to work without much comment, just keep his head down and get to it. But the second he stepped through the hatch to the control room he ran head-first into a solid wall of curious stares. That was the problem with submarines. Everybody heard everything, and there was nowhere to hide.

Benny leaned against the ladder to the conning tower. The glances that passed between him, Zeddmore, and everybody else—damn it, even Ash and Vic, who weren’t even stationed in here—clearly said that Benny had told them all about the miracle man they’d pulled out of the water. The crazy coincidence that he’d helped Benny out with his flight jacket scheme, that he’d gotten to be buddies with Dean— _Dean_ , of all people, who wasn’t known for making fast friends and who barely even spoke to anybody that didn’t report to him.

They all looked at him.

“What is this, a church basement?” He honed in on Zeddmore and Spangler. “Edna? Harriet? We sharing casserole recipes, or what?”

They looked at each other and pretended to read gauges. Just when Dean thought he’d introduced a little chagrin, Chuck stuck his head down from the conning tower. “Hey, Dean, how’s the castaway?”

Dean looked at them all. They were so damn hopeful. It was like he was standing in front of the whole chorus of forest creatures from  _Bambi_. “Fine, he’s fine. Gonna be laid up for a few days, but he’ll make it.”

Zeddmore squinted at him. “So that’s really the same guy?”

He sighed. “Yeah, it’s really the guy. Everybody gonna ask me that, or should I just get on the 1MC and announce it to the whole boat?”

Spangler squinted. “The odds of that have got to be astronomical.”

“Where are you gonna station him?” Ash chimed in from the door of the radio shack, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.

“I don’t know, Ash, he’s been aboard for forty-five minutes. He’s not taking anything off your plate, so don’t worry about it.”

He stood. Waited. They watched him.

“He want anything special to eat?”

“Jesus, Vic, I don’t—” Dean turned to Vic, his mouth open to chastise him and maybe ask if he didn’t have potatoes boiling somewhere, but something in Vic’s expression killed the words on his tongue. Vic leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his cook’s apron, patient and genuinely interested. And Dean realized, he didn’t know the answer.

“I don’t—I don’t know, maybe. He’s out by now. I’ll ask him later.”

Vic shrugged. “Sure. Just say the word and I’ll see what I can do.” And he would, too. If Cas asked for something, Vic would probably find a way to make it happen.

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Vic.” He gestured vaguely upward, toward the ladder. “Well, I better—” He looked once more around the room and dodged Benny to climb up into the conning tower and out of their sight.

The next few days were like that. Submariners were, all in all, a pretty smart group of guys, but they were also a bunch of superstitious nutcases. So the fact that Cas had done a good deed for one of their own—even something so trivial as helping a guy get lucky—and then got picked up by that very same crew, it meant something. And although they didn’t say it where Dean could hear, it also signified something that this guy had somehow gotten to be Dean’s buddy and he’d washed up on their doorstep at the precise moment Dean could use somebody like that around. The bottomless downtime of a three-month war patrol didn’t lend itself to chalking strange things up to coincidence.

The mood on the boat shifted. Cas’s arrival was treated like an omen, like he was some kind of good luck charm. Dean had to concede the point. The chances that the _Colt_ happened to be stationed at those coordinates at the exact time Cas got into trouble… maybe it did mean something. Maybe Dean was okay with the idea that it did.

The day after they scooped Cas out of the water, Dean locked the door and lay down next to him in the bunk. As the mattress shifted Cas roused a little from a gentle morphine high. He smiled lazily upon finding that Dean had suddenly materialized beside him. His eyes drifted open and shut.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey.” He kissed a temple. “How’s it goin’?”

“Mm.”

“That good, huh?”

“Mm-hm.”

Dean wasn’t sure what that meant—whether Cas was feeling better, whether the drugs were pretty good or whether Cas just wasn’t with it at all. He smiled against his cheek. “Submarine life not bothering you so much today, huh?”

“Mm-mm.” He shook his head, just slightly.

“Good. You want anything? Something to eat? Vic says he’ll make you whatever you want.”

“Mm-mm.” His breathing already started to even out again.

Dean watched him for a minute as he drifted to sleep, his mouth growing slack.

“Cas?”

Only deep breathing.

Dean rested against the pillow and for the space of three breaths, just listened.

“How the hell are you here?” he whispered.

Cas flailed an arm, and Dean caught it. He held his wrist and settled it against Cas’s hip, entwining their fingers.

He went on, softly. “Bobby told me once, ‘Coincidences are just God’s way of staying anonymous.’ So is that it? Am I supposed to see some kind of sign here?” He searched his face. Cas was unshaven and frowning in his drugged sleep, mouth inelegantly ajar. He looked pretty human to be a sign of anything. Except that here he was, crashed down from a thousand feet up, down to Dean’s side.

He moved in closer, gently settling himself along the length of Cas’s body. “And here I thought the angel thing was just a stupid joke.”

“Hm.” Cas jerked his head at Dean’s voice but didn’t wake.

Dean pressed his face into his neck and breathed him in. He didn’t think he had it in him to believe in signs and portents. Not really. But Cas being here, that was proof of something. What he didn’t know. Maybe the possibility that fate could actually balance the scales every now and then. That holding out hope wasn’t the exercise in futility he’d learned to believe it was.

It wasn’t faith, not exactly. But it was enough. And it was going to get him through.

 

Cas turned out to be a pretty terrible patient, acerbic and petulant, especially as Christian began to taper off the morphine. Most of his crap was directed back at Christian, which Dean actually didn’t mind because that guy was still on his shitlist. The rest was directed at Dean, which Dean also didn’t mind. That was in part because his relief overrode his annoyance, and in part because it meant Cas wasn’t giving him the kid-glove treatment like everybody else, which he appreciated.

But he had to remind himself of that when Cas petulantly slapped his hands away.

“Stop—” slap, slap—“ _touching_ me. I can wash on my own.”

“Jesus, sorry. You looked like you were gonna pass out for a second.”

“I’m fine. You just sit there and…. jerk off or something.”

Dean raised his hands in surrender and sat back down. Cas stood hunched at the little sink in Dean’s cabin, trying to clean up with a cloth. His chest was mottled black and blue, the kind of thing that hurt just to look at.

“Why are you never wearing a shirt, Dean?” he asked. “I hope you’re not trying to seduce me. I’m an invalid, for God’s sake.”

Dean chuckled. “Practically nobody in here is wearing a shirt, Cas. Notice it gets a little toasty? Unless we’re in port, or we hit cold weather, dungarees are pretty standard and not much else.”

Cas side-eyed him in the mirror. “You neglected to tell me that.”

“Why? So you could pack appropriately for your little crash landing?”

“It would have fueled my imagination.”

Dean chuckled and shook his head. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

Cas caught his eye in the mirror. How the guy managed a shit-eating grin with bruises like that, he had no idea. “Have you got a pair of those dungarees for me?”

Dean looked at Cas’s ass, appreciating the curves barely concealed by thin, white cotton. “If I said I didn’t would you walk around in your drawers all day?”

“Dean. I want to wear your clothes.”

Okay, when he put it like that. “Yeah, I’ve got another pair. I’ll have to find you a belt or they’ll be falling down all the time.”

“If this goes as hoped, they’ll be falling down all the time anyway.”

“Shit, Cas,” he hissed, shifting in his chair. “Stow the innuendo until you can do something about it.”

Cas eased himself away from the sink and onto the bed, an unmistakable look in his eye. “Does that door lock?”

“Lay your ass down and heal up.”

“Does it?”

“Yes. Yes, it does, okay? But you’re an invalid, remember?”

Cas groaned and lowered himself onto the makeshift pillows and pulled up his legs. “This is torture.”

“Here.” Dean tossed a magazine at him. “Take advantage of all the good will.”

With a look like a wet cat, Cas lit an ill-advised cigarette from the pack he kept beneath the mattress and grudgingly picked up the magazine. Thanks to his newly acquired status as ship’s mascot, he never lacked for any of the little luxuries that got men through the long months of a submarine patrol—books, candy, smokes and of course, pornography, which Cas found pretty amusing.

“Jesus,” Dean murmured, looking over the treasure trove that had accumulated around the cabin. “Why don’t they just throw you a damn parade and get it over with?”

“Transference, Dean.” Cas dismissed Dean’s irritation with a shrug and flipped a page. “It’s their way of showing you they love you.”

Dean couldn’t think of what to say to that, but before things could get uncomfortable Cas held up a particularly impressive spread.

“I’m pretty sure I could hold that position, if you’re ever interested.”

Dean’s stomach did a flip. Without thinking too much about it, he got up and locked the door. He climbed over Cas, straddled him and pulled the cigarette out of his mouth. Pinning Cas’s wrists so nothing but their lips could touch even if Cas tried for more, he kissed him hard for about a minute straight.

By the time Dean pulled back, both of their shorts were feeling a little tight. He looked down and surveyed the body beneath his. Cas’s lips were open and pink, eyes near-black as he stared upward in the dim cabin light, chest heaving a little faster than was probably comfortable.

God, Dean wanted to feel him close. Just inches apart, such an easy distance to close. He could already feel the heat off of Cas’s body, smell the light sweat on him. He wanted to run his mouth down that jaw, down that neck, feel the throb of that pulse against his tongue. Press their skin together until the heat and friction exploded into something good, something that would make them forget everything else if only for a few seconds.

But he took a breath and made himself look at the bruises. Not yet.

He kissed him one more time, just a peck. “Get well soon.” He swung up himself up and off the bunk.

“Oh,” Cas gasped. “You sadistic son of a bitch.”

As Dean leaned over the sink to splash cold water on his face, still smiling as the magazine hit him square in the ass.

 

After a couple more days Cas insisted he was feeling better, and by then Dean and Christian knew better than to argue. Dean was pretty sure Cas was just too stir-crazy to stand any more bunk time. He couldn’t blame him. Anyway, Dean wasn’t putting him on duty yet, just taking him for the grand tour and introducing him to the watches, the alarms, the systems and rhythms that kept them afloat. Things that Cas was going to have to be a part of for a while.

From stern to bow, torpedo room to torpedo room, Dean led Cas slowly through hatches as he narrated the life of the submarine crew. “We stay on the surface as much as we can, but during the day we run submerged, keep out of sight of anything carrying depth charges.” He cast a look over his shoulder. “And assholes in fighter planes.”

Cas’s grimace tilted into a small grin as he came through a hatch and joined Dean in the aft engine room.

Dean gestured to the 1600-horsepower monsters whose bulk took up most of the room, rising up from beneath the catwalk where they sat at the bottom of the boat, a full level below. “So when we’re up, we run these babies to charge up the batteries so we can run on electricity when we head back down. If we get stuck below under a depth-charge, we can handle maybe forty-eight hours, give or take. We’ve got some emergency oxygen, but forty-eight is just about the ceiling. Eventually we’ve got to surface.”

“Dean,” Cas sighed, “could you please skip anything relating to the possibility of us getting stuck down here?”

Dean glanced back at Cas, who looked a little more pale and pinched than the ribs called for. “Ah. Yeah. Yeah, sorry. Anyway, we’ll be on the surface as much as we can. We run faster up there.”

“Lovely,” Cas grunted, taking in the overwhelming complexity of grey lines and gauges and unknowable equipment that wrapped the room like a wall of vines crawling along the inner hull.

It was hard for Dean to see the _Colt_ like other people did, like the vast majority of human beings who couldn’t understand what would possess a man to live out years of his life in a contraption like this. But he knew this boat. Every line of her. He looked down that gangway and saw a miracle of construction, at once sleek as a rifle and complex and ornate as an old valentine. She was exactly what she needed to be. She was home.

“She’ll keep us safe, Cas.”

Cas brought his attention down from the overhead machinery to Dean’s face. He smiled softly.

“So.” Dean ran his hand along lovely Engine 3. “When these puppies fire up it gets pretty damn toasty in here. A hundred thirty or more. And the noise you won’t believe. That’s why our Chief Devereaux is so deaf I can tell everybody what a dick he is right in front of his face and he never knows the difference.”

“I heard that,” a dry voice came up from below the catwalk.

Dean knocked twice on a metal casing. “Evening, Frank.” He moved on, shutting up as they moved through the crew’s quarters, where a shift was sleeping under red lights. When they reached the mess, Dean pulled up.

“Eighty men aboard, ten officers, three shifts. There’s not enough beds for everybody so some of the guys hotbunk. Since you’re a guest of honor, you’ll share with me and we’ll stay on opposite watches. My cabin’s the only solo quarters on the boat, so enjoy it.”

Dean thought they did a pretty good job of acting like sharing a bunk was no big deal, even though neither of them was really thinking much about anything else for a minute or two.

Dean gestured to the room they were in. “Crew’s mess. You can eat here or in the ward room with the officers. I try to hang around in here when I can, mostly to soak up Vic’s delightful company.” He stuck his head through the doorway into the galley, where Vic was peering into the bowl of a giant stand mixer. “Hey, Vic, you met our stray yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, then meet Cas Novak—uh, Lieutenant Novak, Army Air Force.”

Vic turned and saluted, belatedly. The Submarine Service wasn’t much for formality.

Cas returned the salute automatically but dropped his hand quickly. “Cas is fine, if we can get away with it. I’ve enjoyed your cooking. Much better than what we get at the base.”

“Submarine Service eats best.”

“Damn right,” Dean nodded. “Bobby always said the first job of the submarine skipper is to get a good cook, then tie him down and never let him leave. Vic here cooks for eighty in a galley the size of a shoebox, and he’s a fucking magician. Best in the Service, and he’s never left the _Colt_.”

Vic laughed dryly. “He bribes me to come back.”

“Worth every penny, man, for the pie alone. And he’s a pretty damn good gunner, too.”

Vic watched Dean closely, doing some quiet evaluation in his head. He turned dark eyes to Cas, apparently satisfied with whatever he came up with. “Welcome aboard. The galley’s always open. Come on over whenever you want something.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. He turned to Cas, jamming a thumb at Vic. “Hey, he likes you.”

“Hey, Dean,” Garth stuck his head in from the control room. “You wanted to know when we were ready to go.”

“Okay, thanks. That’s our cue. See ya at dinner, Vic.”

Vic returned his attention to whatever was in the stand mixer with a small wave and Dean led Cas through one more hatch. “So here’s where all the action happens. We’re gonna be surfacing so you should stick around and watch.” He pointed at the ladder leading to an open hatch in the overhead. “Up there is one more room, the conning tower. Pretty tight space, but that’s where we run the approaches.”

“That’s where the periscopes are?” Cas nodded in the direction of a ladder in the middle of the room. “The conning tower?”

“Yep. Next time we’ve got some action going on you can come up and take a look. But for now, stay right there and we’ll get this show on the road. Garth, rig for surface.” After a few commands were called Dean did the honors, pulling the klaxon to signal they were going up.

Plane controls spun, men tore up ladders into the conning tower and further, out to the open air on the bridge above it. The pressure in the room shifted slightly. The finely choreographed operation took less than a minute, and they were up. Cas leaned back against a wall of gauges, watching everything happen with encompassing attention.

Above them the open hatches let ocean air rush in and sent weak beams of evening light cascading into the dim confines of the boat. Once the guys on watch had all passed through, Cas stepped away from his assigned station to the bottom of the ladder and looked up.

“There’s still sunlight up there.”

“Yeah, probably just about sunset now.”

Cas looked at him intently. “Mind if I step out for a minute?”

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. If we needed to dive, you’d have to move pretty fast.”

“I’m supposed to get fresh air, Dean. Doctor’s orders.”

Seeing the set of Cas’s mouth, Dean figured he’d have to physically restrain him to keep him inside. “Fine, fine,” he sighed. “I’ll go with you.” Like Cas was getting out of his reach.

Cas took the ladder slowly, a slight pause on every rung, and right below him Dean prayed that they wouldn’t call a dive because if they did, he was throwing Cas straight back down the hatch and would probably bust a few more of his bones in the process.

They climbed all the way up, scaling the ladder through the cramped space of the conning tower. Arriving at the hatch in the overhead, Cas gathered himself, grimacing in anticipation as he braced his arms on either side of the opening. Then, with a short, sharp moan, he hoisted himself up and out.

Dean emerged close behind as Cas rose to his feet and half-staggered from the safe cover of the conning tower’s steel plating to the open deck where the .50 caliber aimed aft.

Lookouts were strung up all over the conning tower, bracing themselves in perches across the bridge and in the shears above, eyes glued to binoculars. Benny stood among them, his gaze fixed on the horizon from his post beside the .50. Startled to see the visitor step past him, he glanced back immediately for Dean and raised a questioning eyebrow. Dean gave him a shrug that said it wasn’t his idea.

Cas went all the way out to the rail and gripped it hard as the boat listed and lunged against rolling waves. He stood stock-still, breathing the briny air as deeply as he could.

Dean followed Cas out, hovering a few paces behind. He didn’t do this often anymore, just come up and look. Not since he’d taken over as skipper and stopped watch duty. The _Colt_ was something to see. Except for the blade of the conning tower that jutted up into the sky, she ran long and sleek in the water, most of her body tucked beneath the surface to keep a low profile. Her grey steel dripped with ocean water and the little pools that collected in her deck plates out toward the stern gleamed with the apricot light of the sunset.

“Nice to be out in the open, huh?” Dean asked. “Down there you start to forget what real air smells like.”

Cas nodded and looked out over the rolling waves. “I’m not sure how I’m going to go back in.”

Benny chuckled beside them. “Wait ‘til we dive and all that pretty ocean water starts coming up to greet you. You’ll figure it out.”

Cas just closed his eyes and let the breeze muss his hair, his bruised chest expanding with slow breaths. The wind made it a little chilly to be outside without a shirt on, but Cas didn’t seem to mind. Up here, some of the strain of the cramped quarters drained away and against the sunset, eyes shut in the amber light, he looked pretty damn near perfect.

Dean stored that sight away and forced his gaze out to the horizon. What he really wanted was to wrap his arms around Cas and hold him there, like they were alone out here on all this ocean. Instead, he folded his hands behind his back and stood beside Benny, a few steps behind Cas, and watched him breathe.

 

The next day he was buried in admin at his desk, Cas passed out on the bunk behind him, when a knock interrupted his paperwork. He reached to pulled the door open without looking up.

“Dean.” Ash said softly, glancing at the bunk. He held a piece of paper up between two fingers.

At the sight of it Dean’s stomach dropped. He stared at the slip for a second before he raised a hand to take it. He unfolded it and read. On seeing the sender he let out a breath, awash with both relief and disappointment.

Rustling came from the bunk. “What is it?” Cas asked blearily.

Dean smiled over his shoulder. “Orders.”

Cas tilted his head, but Dean had to leave it at that. He read them over again and let out a breath. Not just any orders, either. This should be interesting. “You want to see some action, you might not have to wait long.”

Ash grinned when Dean told him to pass the word. “Yes, sir.” He practically leapt away, back to the control room.

He looked back to Cas. “We better get you trained up for watches. We’re gonna need your eyes.”

Cas nodded. “Yes, sir.” His eyes were alight in a way that Dean had only ever seen in bed, or on the way there.

Dean fought the impulse to push the chair back and straddle Cas on the bunk. Not the time. He smothered his flush of arousal and turned around to finish up the pencil-pushing. Paperwork, then the shores of Japan. No detours.

He had to keep the specifics of the mission close to the vest, but everybody knew what it meant when he pointed them north. The fighting was drawing tighter and tighter around the Empire as the noose tightened. Out here, there wasn’t much left for Japan to ship to, so there wasn’t much left to sink. But now they were headed into the hot zone.

He ordered full speed and got it. After days of silence, the _Colt_ whipped into action like she’d never dropped out of the hunt. Bobby had trained this crew, and once they got a scent they tore after it like the hounds of hell.

And that was how, the second the boat slowed up, Dean knew they’d run into something. Something good.

When he needed to get his mind off of things, Dean played mechanic’s mate. Devereaux put up with him, more or less, and didn’t attempt to engage him in conversation, which Dean appreciated. And that’s where he was, elbow-deep in Engine 2, when the hum of the props suddenly spun down into silence.

His eyes shot to the overhead and raised his eyebrows at Devereaux. “Well, shit.”

“I’ll get the girls ready,” Devereaux sighed and tossed his wrench into a toolbox.

Dean was swinging through the hatch to the control room, arms still streaked with grease, before anybody had time to call him in.

“What d’ya got, Benny?”

“Pretty juicy one.” Benny told him, calling down from the conning tower. “Jap freighter. Skipping along up there like Little Red Riding Hood.”

“Freighter?” Dean whistled. “Haven’t seen one of those in a while.”

“But that’s not all,” Benny went on. “She’s got company.”

Dean was calling for battlestations when Cas emerged through the hatch from officer’s country, hair still messed up from the lumpy pillow.

“Quick stop,” Dean told him nonchalantly. “Stretch our legs.” He started to scale the ladder. “Come on up if you want.”

Up above in the close confines of the conning tower, Benny called for the periscope and took up his position peering through the eyepiece, evaluating their quarry. Stationed around them were Garth, Chuck and Adam, already at their posts and poised for action. The entire bunch of them huddled together in a space smaller than Sam’s old Ford, the closeness compelling them to breath each others’ air and twist around one another like on a Honolulu dance floor.

Pulling himself up the ladder, Cas took in the scene, swallowed and tucked himself into the far corner, right up against the hull. He rested his back against the steel and took a deep breath, flashing Dean a half-hearted smile.

Meanwhile, Benny had taken his measure of the scene up above. He stepped back and beckoned Dean to look.

There she was, the rare bird. A Japanese freighter still afloat in February of 1945. And sure enough, coming into view on the horizon, almost out of sight behind her, emerged a pointed shape. Any submariner would know that silhouette. Destroyer.

“Got a babysitter, huh, sweetheart?” He turned back to the room and smiled grimly. “Well, okay. The more, the merrier. We’ll hold off on the easy pickins and go take care of mommy’s little helper first. Good eyes, Benny.”

Dean settled in at his station, glancing over at Cas. He was breathing slowly, with intent, pressed as far back as he could be against hull, but his jaw was set and a glance at Dean said he was still game.

Dean gave him a nod and then did his best to forget that Cas was there. The tight space didn’t bother him, but Cas bare-chested in the submerged heat of the boat, close enough to brush together, that got him a little. Dean had spent most of his life jammed together with half-dressed men in quarters like these, but somehow he had never found himself watching the fine movements of muscle on a man’s shoulders before. Or wishing a guy would put on a damned shirt so he could focus.

He fixed his eyes on his maps, plotting out an attack trajectory.

“We’re nose-to-nose,” Benny reported, calling out the bearing. “Mark position.” Garth stood just beside him and read out the hash marks on the periscope shaft. He called out the freighter’s course and the angle on the bow to Chuck, who worked the Torpedo Data Computer with practiced expertise.

Dean frowned. Nose to nose was not a great bet. Made for a narrow target. You wanted to hit a ship right in the sweet spot, halfway between the bottom and the waterline. Too deep or too shallow, and the damage might not bring it down. You had to break a ship’s back, sink her fast so they couldn’t seal up and keep themselves afloat.

“Turn us out to port and wait. Once they cross our stern we fire from the aft.” That would give them a nice, perpendicular shot, right into the length of their port side. “Ready tubes seven, eight and nine.”

The United States Navy had sent Dean Winchester into the Pacific Theater with exactly twenty-four torpedoes to dispose of and every one of them cost more than five times his salary. If you wanted to boil it all down, Dean’s whole purpose for being out here was to find Jap steel to aim those two dozen fish at. He’d done the job well so far that patrol, to have only twelve left.

The orders passed down the line. From him to Benny to Garth to Devereaux and all the rest of Dean’s guys stationed down the length of the boat.

“Speed zero-two and one half knots.”

Adam acknowledged, “Speed zero-two and one half knots.”

Dean counted out the distance, more by instinct than anything else, and ordered a halt.

Chuck chimed in with the firing solution, and the numbers went down to the torpedo room.

“Enemy will cross our stern in less than a minute.”

“Aft torpedo room, prepare to fire.”

They waited the last seconds in silence.

“Fire seven,” Dean ordered.

“Fire seven. Torpedo seven fired.”

“Fire eight.”

“Fire eight. Torpedo eight fired.”

“Fire nine.”

“Fire nine. Torpedo nine fired.”

“Up periscope.” The silver cylinder flew up through the overhead and Benny got his eyes on the ocean to watched the three trails of phosphorous exhaust streak from the _Colt_ toward the destroyer.

Garth counted out the last few seconds. Right on zero, the explosions resounded through the hull.

One hit.

Two hits.

No third. Damn. Miss or a dud. Dean felt a stab of old fear, echoing from the early days when it wasn’t unheard of for a bad torpedo to circle back at the boat that fired it.

“We’re looking good.” Benny murmured.

Dean stepped up and Benny moved aside to let him see. He breathed a sigh of relief. The destroyer was a floating island of flame, rapidly receding beneath the waves. The miss hadn’t cost them the target, at least. He stepped back and gestured to Cas.

“Want a look?”

Cas looked between Dean and the periscope for a second, conflicted, but pulled himself away from the wall and came over. As he peered out at the destruction, Dean addressed the rest of the group.

“All right, our plate’s still full, gentlemen. Get ready for another run.”

Now the freighter was tearing away from them as fast as its engines could carry it, veering back and forth in an evasive zig-zag pattern. It was doing its level best, but its best was no match for the _Colt_. The freighter wasn’t much more than a shopping cart. The _Colt_ was built to hunt.

“They know we’re here. Might as well head up.” Dean turned to Benny. “No use wasting fish on an iffy shot up the skirt. Let’s get ahead of them and pull up.”

Down in the control room klaxons sounded and plane controls spun, bringing the _Colt_ leaping out of the waves. They braced themselves as she rocked gently against the ocean. Above, water would be sheeting off the bow in white streams, flowing down off the conning tower, over the guns and deck. One sexy sight to see, in Dean’s book.

The gun crew hustled up the ladder and outside onto the deck. Without a word or a glance, Cas grabbed the rungs and followed them up.

Dean frowned, caught between his instinct to call Cas back and the knowledge that he absolutely couldn’t. If Cas was going to be a part of this crew, Dean couldn’t single him out. After a moment’s hesitation, he grit his teeth and turned back to monitoring the approach. Cas could take care of himself. And if not, Dean’s guys would.

Off the starboard bow the freighter made off as fast as it could, but the _Colt_ flew past it like a herding dog cutting off a wayward sheep. Coordinates flew back and forth and when the moment came, Dean loosed three torpedoes, all of them striking true. It was all over but the shouting.

Job done for the moment, Dean followed Cas and the rest out into the afternoon sun, shading his eyes as he emerged from the dark of the boat. Benny handed him a pair of binoculars and he took a look at the day’s work.

The freighter was going down. Not as fast as the destroyer, but there was no saving her. She was losing her battle with the ocean water, listing badly to the port side where smoke and flames licked up the hull. Men ran back and forth across her deck, the smarter ones already in the life rafts.

Somebody out there had mounted a couple of guns on the deck, but from this distance it didn’t make for much more than pot shots.

“I don’t usually see it like this. So close.”

Dean looked up. Cas stood near, squinting toward the sinking ship, expression unreadable.

“Does it ever bother you?”

Just for a second, Dean let himself consider the people out there, panicking, watching their doom rise up from below. Every one of them had somewhere they’d hoped to get back to, somebody waiting.

“Nah.”

Cas regarded him, surprised.

“I’m not saying I like it. Or that it’s easy to watch. But does it bother me? No.” He looked Cas in the eye and nodded to the wreck. “Whatever’s on that freighter, it’s heading to some battlefield. It’s gonna be shot or driven or launched at our guys. At kids like Sam. That’s all I need to know to sleep at night.”

Cas’s gaze bored into Dean’s.

“I didn’t want this war," Dean went on. "But I sure as hell want it to end. And if sending ships to the bottom is the one bullet I’ve got in my chamber to help make that happen, I’m sure as hell going to use it.” He raised the binoculars again, just in time to watch a guy leap into the waves. The freighter was succumbing, its deck licked by choppy waves.

“Congratulations, I suppose.”

“Thank you.” 

Dean saluted the wreck and turned the other way, taking in the unending expanse of water. He pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes. “This is some gorgeous weather, ain’t it? Just think, they’re under a foot of snow back home.”

He offered the cigarettes to Cas, who hesitated a moment before accepting one. He leaned in to let Dean light him up.

“One thing I don’t miss,” Dean said to himself. “Goddamn snow shovels.”

Cas looked up, exhaling a long breath of smoke into the breeze.

Dean nodded back to the conning tower. “We better get back in. No use hanging around the scene of the crime. All that smoke, somebody’s gonna come and try to sniff us out.”

He patted Cas’s arm as he headed back inside. Once they’d called the dive and gotten out of Dodge, Dean got on the 1MC to talk to the boat. “And that’s how we fuck ‘em up here on the _Colt_. Nicely done, gentlemen. Vic, you know what to do.”

A cheer went up. Steak that night, with a side of contraband whiskey poured by Dean himself.

He swung by the Radio Shack before heading to his quarters to write up the day’s activities.

“Hey, Ash, anything?”

Ash pulled the headphones off of his ears, mouth pulled into a lopsided frown. “Sorry, Captain, nothing. Radioed in our position and we got acknowledged, but nothing else.”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “Okay.”

“Hey, second I hear,” Ash pointed at him, “I’ll track you down.”

“Okay. Thanks, Ash.” He lurked there for a second longer, telling himself it didn’t make any sense to hang around and wait for a message that might not ever come. He left without another word.

 

Later on, Cas tracked him down in their quarters. He stepped inside without a word and leaned back against the door, looking thoughtfully at Dean reading reports in the bunk.

Dean leaned back. “So now you’re tucking me in, too?”

He wasn’t normally around when Dean turned in. The four-hours-on, eight-hours-off clockwork of the boat meant that Cas normally took over the bunk just as Dean was getting up. Which meant that Dean now woke up every day to one hell of a good-looking Army Air Force pilot straddling his lap. Which meant that this bunk-sharing arrangement was working out pretty well in Dean’s book.

Cas smiled, locked the door and approached, barely giving Dean enough time to shift out of the way as he sat on the edge of the bunk. He looked down at Dean. “I liked watching you up there.”

Dean smirked. “Yeah?”

“You’re very good at what you do.”

Dean nodded and looked away. “Ah, you never met Bobby. He was good. All I do is try to imitate him and not fuck things up.”

Cas chastised him with a look. “That’s very clearly not true.”

He shrugged. “This boat, this crew, they’re all his. I’m just stepping in. And I’m gonna get them through to the end.”

“I’ve heard a little about Bobby. Not much, but I can tell he’s missed, that he was respected.” Cas gave him a sincere look that made him want to turn away. “You are, too. They wouldn’t have anyone else in his place.”

He wanted to tell Cas to leave him alone and let him sleep, but suddenly Cas was drawing a finger down Dean’s throat, over his chest, to the edge of the sheet where it lay over his belly. He met Dean’s eye, asking permission with a steady blue gaze, and Dean shifted back against the pillow and dropped the reports to the floor.

Cas turned his full attention to Dean’s exposed skin. He flattened a hand against Dean’s stomach, running it up and down, back and forth. It was a simple touch, firm and slow, but Dean was quickly primed. He drew a shaky breath and the corner of Cas’s mouth twitched. The hand dropped further, gradually pressing the skin beneath the sheet until he finally had Dean in his hand. He pumped a few times, leaving Dean gasping.

Cas leaned down, licking his lips, and Dean shut his eyes in anticipation.

But when the action halted abruptly, he opened his eyes to find Cas adjusting his seat on the bed with an embarrassed half-smile. “Maybe that’s a little ambitious,” he explained quietly, touching his ribs.

“Understandable. It is a lot to take on.”

Cas smirked and went back to the hand, and Dean was right back on board. It didn’t take much. Having Cas around all day, not being able to touch him except for these few stolen moments left him on the constant edge of arousal. He came into Cas’s hand, clutching his arm and biting his lip to silence his groan.

Once his head dropped back onto the pillow, Cas kissed him and rose to wash his hands. He groaned softly as he straightened up. “I, um, might have pushed it a little today.”

“Told you to go easy on the ladder-climbing.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, and here I am, settling for a handjob.”

Cas looked at him archly. “Settling?”

“Cas, you know you’ve got great hands. But I know what that mouth can do.”

“This mouth can also tell you to go to hell.” He tossed a wet cloth at Dean.

Dean laughed and mopped himself up and tossed the cloth back to the sink. “You know, that’s mutiny. Pretty sure I could have you executed or something.”

“And give up all the blowjobs?” Cas dried his hands and tossed the towel aside. “I think my life is safe in your hands.”

Dean grinned and extended an arm. “Come here.”

Dean shifted over and Cas allowed himself to be pulled slowly down onto his less-bruised side, his back up against Dean’s chest. Two men on this bunk didn’t leave many inches to spare. Not that either of them was complaining.

Dean enveloped him in his arms, resting his cheek against Cas’s. “So how are you doing with all this?”

“Trying not to think about it too much. But it’s interesting work, at least. Distracting.”

“Well, there’s been a lot of excitement lately. That’ll wear off.”

“Not all of it.” He grabbed Dean’s hand across his chest and entwined their fingers.

Dean kissed his temple and settled against him, shutting his eyes.

“I’m looking forward to taking on some duties,” Cas murmured. “Even if it’s just the look-out. I want to do something. Help.”

“Yeah, you will.” Dean turned that thought that over as he began to doze, trying to pin down his sudden unease. “Hey, Cas?”

“Yes?”

“Just be careful out there, okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“Around the boat. On watches. Whatever.”

“Of course.”

“No, I mean it. Keep your head down.”

Cas tensed, poised for an argument, but Dean interrupted.

“Because Cas, if something happened to you under my watch, I don’t think I could take it. I really don’t.”

There was a pause. Finally, Cas sighed. He reached up and cupped the back of Dean’s head, pulling him closer in a sort of awkward embrace.

“All right, Dean,” he whispered. “I’ll be careful.”

 

They were headed to the shores the Empire.

The first stop was reconnaissance. Namely, to get photos of the geography that featured heavily in the wet dreams of every Allied commander in the Pacific these days, from MacArthur on down. There were armies heading this way, and they were going to need a beachhead.

Dean invited Cas to the ward room for the meeting in which he announced the new directive to his officers. A ripple of adrenaline shot through the room. They would be operating closer to Japan than anybody got, except maybe for some of Cas’s people. Right in the belly of the beast.

Once they’d laid out the plan and taken care of business, Garth held everybody back for a minute. He brandished a folded piece of navy blue fabric in his bony fist. “Thought you all might like to see the newest additions.” At some point, Garth had become the steward of the _Colt_ ’s battleflag. No one remembered exactly how or why, but it probably had something to do with the fact that Garth could sew better than anybody’s mother.

Garth spread it out over the table. Dean and the others looked on proudly, like parents showing off their kid’s photo album. The blue field was choked with scarlet suns rising in little squares of white skies. In the center was the _Colt_ ’s insignia, a cartoon of a pissed-looking horse wearing a sailor’s cap and brandishing a smoking revolver.

Dean nodded in satisfaction at how cluttered the flag had gotten. “Getting hard to find room on there now, huh?”

“Yes, sir, it is. I’m very glad we didn’t pick up any more airmen. Not sure I could’ve squeezed in one more parachute.”

“Aw, look.” Dean leaned over, tapping the newest addition. “It’s little Cas.” In the space around the insignia a few parachutes were fixed, signifying every pilot they’d ever picked up out of the water.

“For the sake of accuracy I think you should wrap him up like a mummy in that damned chute,” Benny said dryly. “Never seen a guy get himself so tangled.”

They laughed and Cas rolled his eyes. “I would like everyone who’s laughing right now to fling themselves into the ocean out of an exploding airplane. Then we can rate landings.”

They kept at him and Benny shoved his shoulder. Dean looked on, pleased. His guys were giving Cas shit. That was good.

Garth strung the flag up in the crew’s mess later that day, a proud reminder that they served on one hell of a boat. Every time Dean passed it, he looked at the little figure that represented Cas and smiled to himself. It was satisfying, seeing him immortalized there. Woven in.


	3. Chapter 3

In his head, way back before he’d seen the real thing, Dean had always pictured Japan as some kind of rocky wasteland. The first time he’d seen it through a periscope lens, he’d been surprised to find it lush and exotic, the kind of place where you’d want to go on vacation.

That thought came back to him now as he scanned the shore. The conning tower was silent around him. The whole boat was on pins and needles, sometimes lurking so close to Japan they could’ve punted a football off the deck and downed it on the beach. Everybody was a little more wide-eyed, a little more tight-lipped than usual.

“Want to take a look?” Dean asked Cas, who squatted along the bulkhead a couple of feet away. He had never warmed up to the close quarters of the conning tower, but he was soldiering through out of interest in the operations.

Cas came close, pressing his eyes into the eyepiece. He rotated the scope slowly back and forth, his mouth set in a tight line. “It really is beautiful,” he whispered. “Majestic.”

Dean hovered beside him, watching his lips, transfixed by the way his muscles moved along his jaw. “Yeah, it is.”

“It sort of makes it hard to look at, doesn’t it?”

“Why’s that?”

“Given why we’re here. Strategically.”

Dean sighed, seeing where his mind was going. “Because this might be the landing zone.”

Cas nodded slowly. “Think about what it’ll take to invade a country like this. How many bodies are going to litter that beach. Normandy, times ten. More.” He shook his head, the lines under his eyes etched more deeply than before, and looked back through the periscope.

Dean didn’t think about things that way. He couldn’t afford it. For him, this war was a mission. An obstacle. He had to look past the right and the wrong and the billion tragedies that were playing themselves out in the world and focus on the fact of his duty, the simple yes-or-no question of whether the people he cared about were still warm and breathing. And even that was too much, sometimes.

But whatever it was that let Dean filter out the ocean of grey in all this to fix on the black and white, Cas didn’t have it. Leave it to him to peer through the myopic lens of a periscope and see the bigger, fucked-up picture. Where Dean saw an objective, Cas saw ten thousand graves. That was something you couldn’t stare at for too long.

“Don’t do that,” Dean told him quietly.

“It’s reality.”

“Maybe. It is what it is. But you’ll only mess yourself up thinking like that.”

Cas deflated. Maybe that thought had already occurred to him.

Without taking his eyes off of Cas, Dean called down to the control room. “Okay, Chuck, bring the camera up.”

Cas stepped back to his accustomed observation post against the hull. Dean watched as he crossed his arms and rubbed his eyes with one hand. Then Chuck was there, ready for the shots, and Dean got back to work.

He grabbed all the shots he’d been ordered to and, as the sun went down, moved up the coast to get a few unrequested extras because Dean figured he might as well, as long as they were in the neighborhood. Whenever they weren’t using the scope and left it up, Cas would quietly step in to peer intently at the outside world. Dean wasn’t sure what he was looking at, but he hoped it made him feel better, closer to the sky, so he didn’t call him off.

In the end, it turned out to be a good thing he didn’t. Dusk came, and they were about to head back out to sea when Cas called his name.

“Yeah, Cas?”

“There’s a train.” He moved aside and let Dean step in to take a look.

“Sure enough, look at that.” Right along the shore, Dean could see the lights of the cars snaking between the water and the mountainous terrain.

“You know what that means?”

“Is this going to turn into a math problem?”

“There’s a track out there.”

“Thank you, professor.”

“They probably follow it regularly.”

“Probably do.”

“Dean. You could blow it up.”

He pulled back and gave Cas an exasperated look. “I know I didn’t specifically explain this to you, but submarines generally pursue, you know, things in the water. Being a boat and all.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “You have men, you have charges. I’ve seen them. A small landing party could get in there easily. And the sky’s overcast, so you could probably surface in the dark without being sighted.”

“Man, he’s right,” Ash spoke up from over Adam’s shoulder by the sonar. “Put a pressure-sensitive switch on that puppy, soon as the next train goes over…” He made an exploding noise and spread his fingers to show the cloud. “Just like crackin’ nuts on the track, the way we did back home.”

Dean stared him. It was a flat-out crazy idea. Completely, irredeemably nuts. If ComSubPac got wind of it, they’d put the kibosh on it so fast their heads would spin. And that made Dean want to do it even more.

“Benny, you hearing this?”

“I’ve got ears.”

“So?” He glanced over at his XO, hunched against the hull with his arms crossed. He was grinning.

“Brother, I say we go sink ourselves a train.”

Dean looked at Cas. Good thing Cas looked like he was feeling better, because if they pulled this off, the guy was getting one hell of a blowjob.

 

By 0100, everything was set but the landing party. Every man aboard wanted in. That included Dean, but he grudgingly accepted that he’d given up his days of high-risk adventure had ended when he’d moved into the skipper’s quarters.

Benny was a sure thing, and so was Ash. Benny Dean trusted implicitly to make sure everything went according to plan. Ash turned out to have a strangely deep and nuanced knowledge of explosives, the source of which Dean still didn’t quite understand and wasn’t sure he wanted to. But he put it to use anyway.

The remaining spots on the party Dean decided to divide out by department, split between enlisted and commissioned men. This was one of those operations that guys told their grandkids about. Nothing could be skewed. Everybody had to feel like they had a hand in it.

He picked the names on his own. Preferably guys who could swim, knew how to handle themselves on the ground, maybe had some first aid training. But not Christian. No hot-heads.

And Cas wanted to go. Of course he did. He didn’t say as much, but the way he fixed his eyes on Dean said it all. It was only natural.

So before he made the announcement, he pulled Cas into their cabin.

“You’re not going, Cas.”

“Dean. This was my plan.”

“No, it’s my boat, so it’s my plan. And it’s my call.”

Dean had never actually seen Cas get really, truly pissed before. His shoulders tensed and his face clouded over. His eyes got so dark you could hardly even tell they were blue.

“Why?”

“Do I really have to lay it out for you? Cas, you’re not up for a fight.”

“I’m fine. Enough for this.”

“Bullshit.”

“Dean,” Cas grabbed his arm. “Please. Everyone I serve with is still out there, fighting. I don’t know where they are, who’s alive, who’s dead. I’m just sitting here on this boat like a fucking tourist. Please let me do this. I need to do this.”

“No.”

“I have more knowledge of ground combat than anyone on this boat, including you.”

“No, Cas.”

“Dean, you can’t protect me like this. I’m a soldier.”

“Actually, I can.”

“It’s irresponsible.”

Suddenly, Dean grabbed Cas’s face in his hands and leaned in close enough that Cas could feel the heat of his breath. “If you went out there and something went wrong, do you know what I would do? I would turn around and I would go after you. I’d scuttle this entire fucking boat for you or lose my commission trying.” He shook his head. “I can’t lose one more, Cas. I can’t do it.”

“You can’t allow what’s between us to influence your decisions,” Cas growled.

“Yeah, I can. You’re not a member of my crew. I’m responsible for your safety but I’m not obligated to use you like war materiel, like some _hammer._ So I’m not gonna.”

“Dean.” Cas’s shoulders slumped.

Dean let his hands slide down Cas’s neck to rest on his shoulders. “Cas. Trust me, you’re no tourist here. We wouldn’t even be doing this if it weren’t for you.”

“Fine,” Cas whispered, finally. “Fine.”

Dean sighed. He was relieved but it was probably too much to hope that Cas would be okay with it.

“I should test the switch before they go.” Cas didn’t meet his eye.

“Yeah.” Dean nodded. “That’s a good idea.”

Cas looked like he wanted to say something, but after a pause, he just left. Dean let him go.

 

The whole thing took a few hours, but it felt like days. They waited, surfaced, well concealed with the moon hidden behind an overcast sky.

Dean remained outside, glued to the spot near the deck gun where he’d sent off the landing party. He sat with his arms propped on bent knees and stared single-mindedly into the blackness, even though the dark was so thick he could barely see the edge of the deck. In the distance he thought he could make out the vague outline of Kyushu, but maybe that was his eyes playing tricks on him. Over at the conning tower, the watch was silent.

It was after an hour or more of searching the nothingness ahead of him that someone quietly approached. In the pitch dark Dean wouldn’t have been able to tell who it was except for the sound of his breath and the heat of the skin as he dropped down beside him, a little too close to be anyone but Cas.

“Shouldn’t be out here. You could fall overboard,” he said under his breath.

“So could you,” Cas replied, just as quietly.

“I know this boat with my eyes closed.”

They sat there together for long minutes, listening to small waves lapping at the hull. Dean startled as fingers touched his arm in the pitch black. Cas felt for his wrist and Dean opened his palm, allowing him to find his fingers and entwine their hands. This was Cas letting it go, telling him they were fine.

“Dean,” Cas’s voice barely rose above the quiet slap of waves. “What happened to Bobby?”

He looked toward Cas, even though he knew he wouldn’t see anything but an outline of differently textured darkness there.

"Guess I hoped somebody else would tell you that story."

"I don't think it's a story anybody wants to tell."

“Probably not.” He turned back to the island and let out a breath. “But I guess you should hear it."

He stared into nothing for a minute, bracing himself to remember.

"It was on our last patrol. We’re about eight weeks in, just off the big push at Luzon, and we come up on this Nip fishing boat. It doesn’t look like much, but with things like that, the problem isn’t the boat as much as the eyes on the boat. What they’re watching, who they’re telling about it, you know?”

He could feel Cas’s attention on him.

“This one was located just a little too strategically, so Bobby says we check it out. We’re surfaced, gun crews are out, and Bobby’s on deck with us, getting a look at what we were dealing with. He should’ve been in the conning tower but I didn’t say anything because he’s Bobby and what am I going to do about it?

“He makes the call, orders us to fire and see what they do. So we start dropping shells, closer and closer. The water was choppy, waves were coming up all over. It was hard to stand up straight, let alone aim.”

Dean is staring at nothing now, hearing the waves wash over the deck in his head. “Then suddenly they’re just after us. I mean, tearing at us like fuckin’ attack dogs. They’re pulling out weapons no fishing boat has any business packing, and we’re all getting shot at. We’ve got all guns firing, we’re charging at each other, and that’s when we’re hit with a wave—a big one, almost like a rogue. Ash was on the gun, and he gets washed straight off. He’s scrambling, pulled right across the deck, and ends up just catching himself, just by the tips of his fingers, you know?” Dean held up a hand and bent the last joint. “The boat’s still rocking like crazy, and the guys are screaming, I’m trying to get the deck gun manned again, and Bobby’s suddenly off the bridge and down on the deck, running after Ash.”

Dean swallowed. He could tell the story now without tears, but his voice still shook.

“He pulls Ash up, and Ash gets back to the gun. I’m so fucking relieved, I smile at Bobby and he gives me this grin back, like I should’ve known he’d get it all under control. Then... bam. Bullet straight through his forehead.” Dean looked Cas in the eye, trying to square his jaw. “Body rolled over the side. Gone. We couldn’t even give him a damn burial.”

“What happened?”

“I’m the captain is what happened.”

“I mean, to the fishing boat. The spies. Whatever they were.”

“Burned them.” Dean’s face darkened. “Didn’t look too hard for survivors.”

Cas didn’t flinch, but he didn’t judge, either.

“He’s the one who got me into submarines, you know. Back when he was on a battleship I got posted to his command as a mechanic’s mate. He was an old engine man from way back. Hung around a lot, got to know me. I guess he took me under his wing. Ended up spending as much of my life with him as my own father.”

Cas pulled Dean’s hand into his lap and enveloped it in both of his. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean wished he could smoke, but cigarettes weren’t permitted out here at night. The glow would be a stupid risk.

“When I got promoted, everybody kept saying, ‘Sorry it’s under these circumstances. Must be a bittersweet achievement.’ All that bullshit. But the thing is, there wasn’t anything sweet about it. I didn’t even want to be skipper. Never did. I just wanted to serve with Bobby.” He breathed against the tightness in his throat. “We were family.”

“I didn’t know him, Dean, but I think he would’ve been glad that the _Colt_ in your hands. No one else could lead her like you do.”

“I just hope he never regrets it, wherever he is.”

“He won’t, Dean.”

Dean looked at Cas. All that faith in him. He wondered how he could be so sure.

Again, they waited, falling into silence.

After long hours the signal flash finally came. At the sight of it Dean doubled forward, dropping his head between his knees. Cas dropped a hand on his shoulder and without a word, dissolved silently into the darkness toward the conning tower.

The landing party made it back safe, sound and flush with excitement. Dean handed each one of them aboard, silently clasping their shoulders as they stepped onto the deck. Even inside, they kept their voices down to excited murmurs as the party recounted the adventure, how they’d all looked over Ash’s shoulder as he laid the switch and made sure it was perfect. Cas listened raptly, asking questions in hushed tones.

Meanwhile, the boat submerged and moved off a little further, watching the site through the periscope. When Dean saw the lights of the next train emerge around the bend of the mountain through the periscope, a ripple of excitement went through the tower, echoing down to the control room and filling the boat, bow to stern.

Dean watched the train approach its doom with cool detachment. The lights snaked their way around the mountain, flickering inevitably closer to extinguishment. He took his eyes away from the scope for second to see a half-dozen intense stares on him. Back against the bulkhead, almost lost among them, was Cas. Dean stepped back from the periscope and gestured to him.

“You want to do the honors, Cas?”

Chuck looked visibly impressed.

“Come on. Your idea. You earned it.”

Cas approached hesitantly. “Thank you.”

Dean patted his arm as they switched positions. Cas peered in and beginning to narrate. “Train’s coming around the bend. Ten seconds until ignition… Five…”

They didn’t need Cas to tell them when the charge went. They could hear it a mile off even through the water.

Cas grinned under the eyepiece. “I hope you’ve got room on that battle flag for a tank engine.”

A cheer went up. It was short—they had to muffle their true elation at pulling off this boneheaded maneuver to ensure they’d survive to tell the tale—but you could feel the real strength of it in the air. People slapped Dean’s shoulder, and Cas’s, too.

It was 0500 before they got a chance to sleep. By that time Cas was looking a little worse for wear so Dean let him have the first shot at the bunk. He didn’t mind catching a nap in the crew’s quarters.

But before Cas had been gone too long, Dean made sure to find a reason to run back to his cabin. He announced himself with a brisk knock and stepped inside, locking the door behind him.

Cas was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands lose in his lap.

“Nice work out there,” Dean said softly.

Cas huffed. “You, too.”

Dean approached him and knelt on the linoleum. He ran his hands up and down the backs of Cas’s shins. “How you feelin’?”

“Okay,” Cas said, running a land over Dean’s hair, then over his cheek. “You haven’t shaved in a while.”

“I grow a beard out here, sometimes. Easier than shaving all the time. You don’t like it?”

“Actually, I do.”

Dean didn’t make him lean down. He rose up on his knees and kissed the violet-yellow patches on Cas’s chest, working his way upward, over the neck and jaw, until they were mouth to mouth, and Dean pressed as close as he could get between Cas’s spread thighs. He raked his fingers over Cas’s ass, pulling their bodies together.

“This okay?”

Cas nodded jerkily.

“Lay back.”

Cas scooted himself back onto the mattress until he rested against the pillow. Dean crawled with him, bracing himself over his body, just letting them touch enough for Cas to feel him. But he dove in with his mouth and kissed him hard and hot.

“Still good?” he gasped.

“I swear to God, if you stop now you’re not leaving this cabin alive.”

Dean grinned. Here was the guy he’d met back in Honolulu. He continued his ministrations, working his way back down over the ridges of Cas’s ribcage. He ran his hands lightly over Cas’s flanks as he worked his mouth against skin. Cas writhed and silenced wild sounds that Dean filled in from memory.

Dean unfastened Cas’s trousers and pulled them down his legs, blindly tossing them off to the side. He licked his way around Cas’s groin, over the hollows of his pelvis, teasing the silky skin around his cock with the bristle of his beard and making Cas gasp.

Cas ran his hands ran over Dean’s shoulders and head, fingers trembling spasmodically every time he got close to the target.

Finally, Dean took pity and sucked him into his mouth. He fisted the base of Cas’s dick and bobbed up and down, swirling his tongue around the tip and making Cas arch his neck back. He glanced up to see Cas drop his head back and stare at the overhead, chest heaving.

Dean went at him with everything he had, the wet sound of his saliva around Cas’s dick seeming loud in the tight space. Cas’s cock was hot and firm in his mouth, exuding salty drops onto his tongue. He cupped Cas’s balls, eliciting a low groan. Cas’s back arched and his breathing quickened. Dean went with it, following the movements of his body.

Long minutes of wet silence passed by, until Cas tensed beneath him. His hand tightened in Dean’s hair and he made a small, soft noise. “Dean—” he hissed in warning, and a second later he was coming hard into Dean’s mouth.

Dean kept moving until the last, taking in every bit of it, even though his neck and shoulders were cramping at the angle.

Cas’s head dropped back as he caught his breath, hands resting loosely on his chest.

Dean crawled up beside him. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m… I’m just fine.”

“Good.” Dean kissed his bare shoulder and rested his cheek there, taking in the scent of his skin.

Between heavy breaths, Cas chuckled.

“What’s so funny?”

“I thought all of those things they say about sailors were vicious rumors.”

“Well, that one happens to be true.”

“They really ought to put that on the recruitment poster.”

 

When Dean finally took over Cas’s spot in the bunk, he slept like the dead. He had a strange dream where he and Cas were out on deck, holding hands as explosions went off in the distance. The scene was vivid but it evaporated as soon as his eyes opened.

He was confused when he woke to Cas straddling him, grinning down like a cat.

“What’s your problem?”

“You weren’t responding. I said I’d come get you.”

Dean scowled. “What?”

“There’s a message.”

He watched Dean, waiting for something. “A message for you, Dean.”

A message.

Dean sat up, hard enough to knock Cas over. He shot out of bed and grabbed his dungarees, not conscious of how hard he’d knocked Cas on his ass until he had pulled them up over his hips and saw Cas crumpled against the bulkhead, grimacing.

“Oh, shit. You okay? Sorry—”

Cas managed to laugh and waved him off, clutching his chest with an expression somewhere between a grimace and a smile. “Go, go. My fault. Should’ve seen that coming.”

Dean nodded and took off, because he couldn’t not.

The whole control room silenced as he arrived. He approached the radio shack on shaky legs. “What’ve you got for me, Ash?”

Ash looked up, a quirky smile on his face. He immediately held up a slip of paper between two fingers, like he had expected Dean to appear over his shoulder any second.

Dean snatched it away and read hungrily. His eyes moved so quickly over the words he had to stop and start again to understand it all. “Holy shit.” He backed up again and re-read. “Holy motherfucking shit.”

Benny came up behind him. “So. What’s the good word?”

“He’s… okay. They found him a week ago. Probably been trying to get this out here for days. I mean, he’s wounded or something, but he’s okay. He’s gonna be all right.” His voice was quivering. “Holy shit. Holy shit, Benny, he’s going home. He’s already on his way. Sam’s done, man!”

Dean whooped, and it was a good thing they were already surfaced because if any Japs had been in the area listening in he would’ve given them dead away. He cackled and grabbed Benny into a tight hug, and guys wandered in from a couple of compartments away to pat him on the back and shake his hand.

“That lucky son of a bitch,” Dean laughed. “Going back home to Philly and one fucking gorgeous girl.” Dean laughed and blinked to keep himself from losing all decorum and crying like a girl. He re-read the message a couple more times.

When he looked up again he saw Cas leaning against the control room hatch, watching him with a satisfied smile like he’d never doubted this moment was coming the whole time. Dean went to him and drew him into a tight embrace, taking the chance when for once it wouldn’t raise any eyebrows. He patted Cas’s back to keep it at least a little manly, but Cas just held him. Dean soaked up every second of it and let out a breath that he felt like he’d been holding for weeks.

 

> Feb 4, 1945
> 
> Hey, bitch-
> 
> Just heard today you found your way back into friendly hands and you’re heading home. You know I’m going to kick your sorry ass for this stunt when I get back, right?
> 
> I know we said we wouldn’t get all pissy at each other when we didn’t write all the time, but Samantha, there had better be one really good, extremely descriptive letter heading this way. They said wounded in action. What does that mean? Details.
> 
> So, one Winchester down, one to go. We’ve got ‘em on the run out here so it shouldn’t be too long. See you soon.
> 
> Take care. And fucking write.
> 
> Dean
> 
> P.S. Just FYI because I know you’re gonna worry about this, Jess hasn’t come onto me yet. Probably figured she’d give it a month or two out of respect. Good woman you got there. Tell her hello and sorry, looks like she’s stuck with you.

 

After that, things went back to normal.

Their next assignment was to patrol a stretch of the East China Sea and divert anything that looked like it might be ferrying raw materials to Japan straight to the bottom.

The Submarine Service had already done a pretty good job of cleaning up those waters, just like the rest of the Pacific Theater, but Japan had to be as starved as they could make her by the time the invasion bore down. And things were still getting through. The _Colt_ was ordered in to tighten the seal.

On the way to their coordinates, Dean directed his renewed zest at the news from Sam toward torturing his crew with drills. Emergency dives, approaches, surface battle drills—he threw it all at them, pulling the klaxon with glee, sometimes on a moment’s whim, while men groaned and rolled their eyes before leaping into action.

Dean was back.

Cas took on a watch, climbing easily up into the shears with his binoculars like he was made for it. And he was good. He could tell a Jap Zero from a US Hellcat by the rumble of the engine. After a couple of weeks, the guys seemed to forget that he wasn’t a qualified submariner.

He also drilled with the gun crew, switching in for Ash on the deck gun beside Vic. The first time Dean saw him at it, he was up on the bridge with Chuck and trailed off right in the middle of a sentence.

Cas aimed almost nonchalantly, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth as he spun the gears to lift the barrel and slammed the pedal to fire. Dean shouldn’t have been pleased when somebody showed up his own crew, but when Cas casually took out a dummy target they’d been firing at on rolling seas for ten minutes with no luck, Dean couldn’t help but grin.

And every day, they handed off the bunk. Dean knew when he hit the sack that he’d wake seven hours later to Cas’s hands on him. It was probably ironic that he’d ended up with a bunkmate on the first patrol he’d ever taken with his own private quarters. He pretended to complain.

 

One day, as they soaked up a silent moment before Dean got up for his watch, Dean ran the tips of his fingers down the tanned planes of Cas’s chest, just firmly enough not to tickle. Cas’s head was tilted, bearing his neck. He had a few days’ stubble, and his hair was growing out a little. He shifted, eyes closed, and Dean could imagine that this was a Sunday morning back home.

The thought came to him out of nothing, quiet and unlooked-for.

_I could be happy like this._

His heart beat a little faster. Surprise. Excitement. Trepidation. He didn’t know which this was. For a minute he stayed put, just touching Cas, feeling that thought out like an old, healed-up wound. Yeah. This wasn’t flip or shallow or impulsive. This was really, truly some kind of happiness he might have here.

It was just a thought, but a gigantic one. The kind of thought that rearranged the planes of the future, made lives into something entirely different.

He closed the distance between them. He pulled Cas in and held him as closely as he could. Without opening his eyes, Cas sought his hand and pulled it up onto Dean’s chest, tight in his. He turned his head, nuzzling Dean’s shoulder.

Dean grinned, his heart going crazy in his chest. “Hey. When we get back to Honolulu, you’re gonna stick with us for a little while, right?”

“Hm?”

“I mean, they won’t send you straight back, right? You’re gonna get a little time?”

“Maybe.” He rolled enough to look at Dean’s face. “Why?”

Dean shrugged. “Just hoping.”

“Just hoping.”

“Yeah.” Dean kissed that searching look off his face.

 

By the end of February, he heard from his brother.

 

> Heya jerk,
> 
> Man, I have had one hell of a month. First off, I’m okay. You probably know that already. In fact, I’m really good. More about that in a sec.
> 
> Long story short, I took a bullet in the leg and got my bell rung a little. It kind of knocked me out and I got separated from my unit. Eventually I managed to get on my feet and make my way back to our lines. Had to take a little detour, sort out a little misunderstanding with Jerry on the way back so it took a little time. You can buy the details with a beer once you’re back. Let’s just say, no way you top this one with your little bathtoy out there. But good luck trying.
> 
> Okay, so here’s the other thing I have to tell you. When I got back Jess was there and we were just really glad to be back together, so we sort of got married. Please don’t be pissed at me. We just didn’t want to wait anymore. So we’re going to buy a house in Philadelphia and get started on this ever-after thing. And we’re going to have some extra bedrooms. One has your name on it. As long as you want it.
> 
> So, let’s see here—
> 
> Me: back from war, wife, house.
> 
> You:
> 
> That’s 3-zip. You better get things wrapped up out there pretty quick because I am currently kicking your ass at this life thing.
> 
> You better not be planning on staying in the Service when this is done. Time to do something for yourself, Dean. I swear if you don’t show up here I’m coming out to drag you back.
> 
> See you soon—back home.
> 
> Sam

 

Dean read the letter in the ward room. The radio was on and Tokyo Rose was playing Ella’s rendition of _Paper Moon_. Cas sat beside him in the cramped space, one knee propped against the table, reading _Jane Eyre_. Dean had never actually seen that book checked out of the boat’s library before.

“Hey. Sam got married.”

Cas looked up, searching Dean’s face. “And is that a happy announcement?”

“Hell, yeah. Jess is great. Makes you want to throw up, so they’re so good together.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Though Sam did get a little help from yours truly with the wooing part.”

“Of course.”

“What can I say, it’s my secret superpower.” Dean glanced at the guys playing a noisy game of Acey Ducey at the other end of the table.

Cas smiled just a fraction.

“I’ve got to say, though, it’s strange, thinking about Sam off on his own like that. Wife, house, pretty soon some kids, probably. The whole shebang. Makes me feel old.”

“You’ll have time.”

Dean looked at him, but Cas was staring at the book, absently thumbing the corner of a page. He let it pass. Not the time or place to bring up what-ifs.

“Just wish I’d been there, you know?”

Cas looked up at that and tilted his head, listening in that weird, focused way that Dean had somehow gotten used to. He didn’t say anything.

“I’m glad he’s happy, though. He deserves it, after all this.”

Cas smiled wryly. “Then look at it this way. They get the wedding, and you don’t have to rent a suit.”

Dean laughed. “Is your brother married?”

Vague distaste soured Cas’s expression. “Divorced. Twice.”

Dean kept it casual, concealing his curiosity. “Doesn’t play nice with others, huh?”

“You could say that."

“Big brothers are jerks. It’s the rule.”

“Is that it?” Cas asked noncommittally.

Disappointed, Dean deliberately ignored the hint. “So is he serving out there somewhere?”

After a moment, Cas replied without looking up. “No. Too old.”

“Little brother’s revenge. All those years taking shit, and then bam. You’re holding all the cards. I’ve got that coming to me.”

“Yeah. I suppose.” He closed the book looked at the cover. “Well, I’m on watch soon. I should go get ready.” He waved vaguely at the others as he rose. Dean tugged on the hem of his dungarees beneath the table as he passed, just slightly, but Cas gave no sign that he noticed.

 

It bothered him, how Cas had given him the brush-off. He replayed the conversation in his head, but couldn’t decipher the meaning. Cas acted like nothing happened, and Dean never found a way to ask. He’d learned a long time ago that if something looked touchy, you didn’t drag it out on patrol. On a submarine there wasn’t anywhere for the bad air to go. And the blessing and the curse of the close quarters meant that they were tight together. There was no space between them if tension arose, no pressure valve.

So Dean let it go. More or less.

Until the night when, to celebrate surviving a pretty ballsy run into a harbor to blow an oil tanker to Kingdom Come, Dean called for a movie night.

Dean loved movie night. He loved gathering the guys together in the mess in crowded shifts, eating popcorn or Jell-O or whatever else Vic scrounged up from the ship’s stores, and bruising his ass on horrible seats as they all soaked up a little bit of life back home a hundred feet below the surface. All of them together, just being a bunch of guys.

That night, it was _Cover Girl_. Rita Hayworth. Not bad.

After the second shift, a few of them stuck around. Ash, Garth, Benny, Devereaux, Chuck, Vic. The regulars. And Cas.

The conversation turned to the war, how all signs were pointing to a victory in the not-too-distant future. And that led them to the topic that Dean always skirted like a bad luck charm. After.

“I’m finishing my novel,” Chuck said. “I left it in a safe deposit box when I left so my mother wouldn’t read it.”

“What’s it about?” Vic asked.

“It used to be an epic, wartime romance. Now I think it’s going to be a satire about a bunch of schlubs in a submarine.”

“Yeah? You gonna put us in it?” Benny asked.

“Only if I still like you when we’re done.”

Benny nodded, satisfied, and raised his coffee cup to his lips. “Nice. I’m gonna be immortalized.”

“If I ever get it published I’ll send you a copy. Probably end up with a few thousand extras.”

“How about you, Captain?” Ash turned to Dean, leaning on his arms over the table. “Where you headed?”

“Ah, I don’t know.” He shook his head and grabbed another handful of popcorn.

“He’s gonna take over this Navy, is what he’s gonna do.” Benny raised his mug. “Admiral fuckin’ Winchester.”

Ash nodded, wide-eyed. “Yeah, man.”

Devereaux raised his eyebrows and took a swig from a mug that Dean was carefully avoiding noticing was not coffee or water.

Dean shook his head, grinning. “You know they couldn’t handle me. Nah, actually… Actually, I’m thinking I just might turn civilian.”

“What?” Benny slapped his hand on the table in shock amid a general outpouring of disbelief around the table. “Dean Winchester on shore? Holy shit, man. Wait, wait. You got a woman or something?”

Dean snorted but couldn’t stop himself from glancing at Cas. “You know me better than that, Benny. I’m just thinking, you know, Sam’s back, getting married, putting down roots. Might be time for me to put in.”

He looked right at Cas. Cas watched him back, eyes intense and blue.

“Well, it wouldn’t be the same out here without you,” Benny said, shaking his head.

“They’re not gonna need a whole lot of submarine skippers when this thing is done.”

“But they’d want you, Dean. They’d be crazy not to.”

Dean shrugged him off and bit the bullet. “How about you, Cas? Where to? Gonna take up crop-dusting?”

Cas shifted awkwardly under all the attention. “I don’t know. It could be a long time. It seems premature to make plans.”

Dean’s chest clenched. It was true. Once this thing crossed over onto solid ground the _Colt_ wasn’t going to have much to do, but for pilots like Cas, it was going to be another stage, another kind of hell. It was a sharp reminder that he was only here by chance. And not for much longer, either.

They all kept at it, spouting off their pipe dreams. Dean listened and chimed in. But over and over again, Dean found himself catching Cas’s eye over the table.

He didn’t quite understand what was behind the look that Cas gave him. He wasn’t even sure what was behind his own. But maybe they’d figure it out, once they had a little space.  A little time.

 

The thing about serving on submarines was that you could get too comfortable, too confident. A few good weeks pass and it wasn’t hard to forget just how crazy you were to sign up for this, how precariously everything you had in the world balanced on the edge of destruction. Because in the space of a coin flip, everything could go belly up.

For the _Colt_ , it all happened so fast that it took Dean a full five seconds to believe it was real, like a gambler slackjawed and outplayed by a perfect hand. One second, three torpedoes are careening toward a battleship and Garth practically has the kit out to chalk up another hit on the flag. The next, the whole patrol is coming down around them. All blown on one last run that Dean just had to take, and a few bad shots.

An attack on a destroyer with only three torpedoes left in the trunk was risky, and he’d known it. Especially in these shallow waters where they couldn’t dive to safety. But they didn’t pick submarine captains for their caution in the face of danger.

He could have ducked beneath the surface, waited them out. They were done out here, already en route for Pearl. He could’ve left it at that and pulled into Honolulu pretty damn proud of this crew. But that battleship would’ve been out here, needling him, probably moving on to harass somebody else. And he would’ve gone back with those last three fish unspent in the _Colt_ ’s torpedo tubes. Three more shots he declined to take, three punches he pulled. He couldn’t stomach it, not for a little safety. That wasn’t what they were out here for.

And so Dean had followed his gut and gone after them with everything he had. Even if everything didn’t amount to much.

And then, everything missed.

He didn’t know what was off. The gyro, the torpedos, their firing solution or just their goddamn fortunes, but it all went wrong. And they’d given themselves away with the phosphorous streaks of the torpedos’ trails as they tore after their target. It was just 100% shit luck all around.

And now, they had no choice but to fight it out on the surface.

In the conning tower Dean scowled as he watched the gun crews hustle up the ladder and outside, and he watched Cas head out with them. He was a fucking idiot for getting them into this.

Outside, bullets were flying. They snapped against the outer hull and Dean could almost feel the nicks in the steel, the little cracks that could smash them into nothing under the weight of the ocean.

He wanted to be up there. He itched to see for himself what was going on, what was happening to his guys. Instead, all he got were bearings and damage reports shouted down. He paced the conning tower, spitting commands to the control room below and pausing to hover at the bottom of the ladder leading up.

The battleship wasn’t going to go down easy, that much was clear. They weren't too badly matched and the _Colt_ got plenty of shots in, but the water was just too rough.

Pass after pass, they came to a draw. Which meant the _Colt_ was losing. She couldn’t take this kind of damage.

The boat rocked and he grunted as his shoulder slammed into the sharp edge of an instrument panel.

“Hit on the stern!” Benny called down.

“Dean!” Garth’s voice echoed up from below. “The port screw isn’t responding!”

“Fuck,” Dean spat. And now they couldn’t take off if they wanted to. “All right, that’s it! Take us down, Garth. As deep as you can get us.”

“Dean!” Benny’s head appeared in the hatch above. “Adam’s been hit! Up in the shears. We need the doc.”

Dean passed the order on down and stilled as the klaxon sounded.

Men were piling in, and Christian came up the ladder as soon as there was a gap. No Adam yet.

And, he realized with a lurch in his gut, no Cas. He grabbed the ladder and craned his neck, white-knuckled.

Fuck it, he was going up.

Dean scaled the ladder in a second and swung himself up onto the bridge. Waves were washing over the boat, and _Colt_ was cutting through the water, just beginning a slow descent, hobbled and awkward without both of her propellers working at the stern. Sticking to the cover of the steel shielding, he followed his XO’s gaze up to where Cas was scrambling up the shears to where Adam was stuck, half-conscious and bleeding, and about to drown.

“God damn,” Dean swore.

“Adam!” Cas shouted over the waves and gunfire.

Dean was lunging after him before he could think but Benny caught him and wrestled him back. It was too late, too late, the dive was counting down. He was already losing one here, please fucking God don’t make it two. “Cas! Cas, we’re diving! Damn you, get your ass in here!”

“I can get him!” Cas was already next to Adam, pulling him off of the lookout perch and hoisting him over a shoulder.

Inside, plane controls were spinning and the ocean was beginning to rise up. Dean knew the seconds like his own heartbeat and even slowed by damage, there weren't many left.

“Dean, we’ve got to go!”

Benny’s hands were tight on his arms but he wrenched away as the boat hit a wave and careened lopsidedly.

“Fuck you!” He looked back up to scream at Cas, just as another wave smacked the boat over again. Cas didn’t have the grip on the wet metal to hold both himself and Adam and they dangled terrifyingly over open water for a moment. As the boat righted itself, Cas’s grip gave way and they tumbled the twenty feet down to the teak deck beside the conning tower, barely managing to stay aboard at all.

Dean was at the bridge railing even before they hit. “Cas!” Bullets were spitting against the hull. The boat was turning its stern out, unable to halt the spin and she dove, and the line of fire was opening up the interior of the conning tower to a hail of bullets. God damn it, they were all dead.

Cas was dazed but he moved with mechanical determination, yanking himself up. He lugged Adam up the rungs on the side of the conning tower. Dean pulled the kid off of him as soon as he could reach, making for the hatch so fast he slipped as the deck tilted under him and nearly went over himself.

Throwing Adam at Benny to drag below, he lunged back for Cas, crawling on his hands and knees to stay out of the hail of fire. Cas grabbed his hand but it was wet and probably numb with cold and slipped from Dean’s fingers.

The ocean was coming up for them, white crests submerging the deck. Dean grabbed the back of Cas’s coat, pulling with everything he had. Adrenaline fueled him as he dragged Cas up onto the bridge and scrambled backward, shoes slipping across the metal decking.

Then Benny had him and, just as water began to seep over the bridge, towed them both inside and sent them tumbling down to land gracelessly inside the conning tower.

Dean scooted back to lean against a panel, pulling Cas along, his chest heaving. “Rig for fucking depth charge!”

They made it. They made it.

Now to try not to get blown to hell.

He clutched Cas, leaning his head back. They both gasped for air. He wiped his face on his shirt, but it was soaked through. His hair was plastered to his head.

Benny was prodding at him. “Get Christian back up here!” He called.

“He’s with Adam in the crew’s quarters,” Chuck hissed back, sounding frayed. Meaning he had been sealed away behind hatches slammed shut to keep them all from drowning if one room flooded.

“Shit.”

Dean looked up. “What?”

“You got shot, dumbass.”  

He followed Benny’s gaze to his right shoulder. Sure enough. Fuck.

Cas was twisting in his arms, eyes wide. He tore off Dean’s shirt with indiscriminate fingers, ripping fabric. Dean would’ve made an off-color joke under other circumstances.

Cas didn’t look so great, either. Blood poured from a gash across his scalp. Probably superficial, but he was bleeding like a stuck pig. Cas ignored it, wiping blood out of his eyes as he tore the T-shirt into halves. One he used as a bandage, pressing hard. “Hold that,” he ordered Benny, and Benny complied. The other he used to tie it in place, wrenching as hard as he could to tighten the cloth.

Okay, ow. That hurt. Dean bit his lip hard enough to keep a shout down to a low groan.

“No exit wound,” Cas murmured, taking off his coat.

“Damn.” Dean leaned his head back. Somehow he’d made it this far without ever requiring battlefield surgery. So much for avoiding ever ending up under Christian’s knife. He shut his eyes, feeling the pressure shift just slightly as the boat descended into the Pacific as deep and fast as it could.

There was a stomach-dropping lurch, and that was it. The _Colt_ bottomed out.

A hundred fifty, maybe two hundred feet if they were lucky. Not enough. Dean hoped it was a pretty spot because there was a decent chance it was going to be their grave.

“Cas, you all right?”

Dean’s eyes snapped open at Benny’s inquiry. Cas was wavering on his knees, dropping a hand to the deck to steady himself.

“That’s the bottom, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Dean grabbed his arm with one hand. “Just hang in there. Keep quiet.”

The first depth charge rocked the boat, pretty far off. Benny lurched into Dean, knocking his shoulder. Dean hissed and Benny gestured an apology, bracing himself better.

“Not gonna be easy to spot us in this weather,” Benny said. “We might blend in.”

Dean nodded. _Your lips to God’s ears._

Meanwhile, Cas was breathing hard, going white fast. He touched his scalp, pulling his fingers away to look at the red on them. “I hit my head,” he whispered. He stared glassy-eyed at the deck.

Benny somehow understood what was going to happen and snatched up Cas’s discarded coat in time to provide something for Cas to vomit into. After he bunched it up and set it aside without comment.

Cas remained hunched, resting on his palms. Dean pulled him over to lay against him. He came along clumsily, unresisting.

Benny touched Dean’s shoulder and gave him a nod before he descended to the control room. Around them, the boat was virtually shut down. Outside, the props were still. AC was off. The air thickened with humidity. It was them and the ocean, waiting.

Almost immediately another can hit, closer this time. So much for blending.

The crew was dead silent. Cas laid his head back against Dean and covered his eyes with his fists.

The Japs knew where they were and weren’t leaving until there was nothing left of them but an oil slick in the waves. And there wasn't a damn thing they could do about it.

So Dean slumped there with Cas and stared at nothing, waiting for the  _Colt_  to be shaken to pieces around them.

How much time passed was hard to say. Fifteen minutes, a half hour. Plenty of time to think. About whether he would be judged for leading them all into this, about Bobby, about Sam. How long would it take for them to figure out the _Colt_ was missing, declare it lost? Days? Weeks? The clock was ticking on all that happiness his brother had going for himself.

He shut his eyes tight. _Sorry, Sammy._

As minutes passed Cas calmed and his breathing steadied. Dean might’ve assumed he’d passed out except that he flinched every time a charge blew especially close. Dean leaned his cheek against his hair.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean whispered, his voice so soft it wouldn’t carry to Ash at the other end of the room. “How you doin’?”

Cas turned his head but didn’t open his eyes. “I’ve been worse.”

Dean almost laughed. He rubbed his hand up and down Cas’s arm.

The blows were coming fast now. The Japs had a bead on them. He had to brace a foot against the bulkhead to keep them from sliding down the hatch to the control room. Bulbs blew, the glass on gauges cracked. Any second something would hit close enough to blow a hole, or a seam would rattle open. And that would be it. Only a matter of time.

He considered what that it was going to be like, all that cold water rushing in, what it would feel like to be crushed by the ocean. He wondered if he could keep his hold on Cas as they drowned.

Something blew toward the bow, a bad one. Steel groaned and Dean almost lost his footing. If a compartment had gone, they were never surfacing again. Maybe the Japs would never get a good hit and they’d wander off, leaving the crew of the _Colt_ to sit down here and suffocate. _Forty-eight hours_ , he’d told Cas. That was the oxygen they had. He wished he’d never given him the number.

He forced his breathing to calm, if only so Cas wouldn’t feel his fear. He put his lips close to his ear and breathed, “I’m sorry.”

After a moment the reply came, just as quiet. “Don’t.” He looked up for a second, steady and strangely peaceful. “No apologies.”

It wasn’t adequate. He needed Cas to understand the full depth of his regret, that it wasn’t just for how he’d killed them all. It was that, but it was more.

Somewhere in the back of his mind these last few weeks, a thought had begun to flicker. Sort of a picture of them, an idea that what they had here maybe could be something. He and Cas fit together like he just didn’t fit with anybody else. As he’d faced down the day when Cas would leave, he’d realized he didn’t want to let go. He hadn’t let himself lay out exactly what that meant, assign words to anything, but the image had been there.

And now they were going to end down here, and Dean had run out of time to figure it out.

He held Cas tight in his good arm, gripping his shirt with white-knuckled fingers and pressing his cheek hard into his hair. He took a ragged breath. “I’ve just gotta make sure you know—”

He stumbled on his words, feeling the seconds tick. A charge went off right next to them, and something gave way somewhere. The _Colt_ was crumbling, and he realized was going to die like this, mouth open, still trying to say something important and big that refused to crystallize into words.

“I’ve just got to tell you—”

Then there was a different kind of explosion, like thunder, and the boat rocked. Oh, God. Is that what it felt like, when the boat was torn open around you? He threw himself over Cas, as though it would make a difference.

They waited for the killing blow.

And waited.

They looked up.

A minute passed. Another.

Nothing else dropped. Silence.

Finally Dean sat up, nudging Cas away. He dragged himself to his feet, a little woozy, and went to Ash, who had jumped in to cover for Adam at the sonar. “What’ve you got?”

Ash shook his head. “Sonar’s blown. Radar's out. We’re blind.”

Dean told Cas to stay put with a pointed finger and made his way down the ladder to whisper to Chuck and Benny. “No sonar, no radar.”

“Shit,” Chuck spat, gripping a bar over his head. “And we’re below periscope depth.”

“We’re going to have to chance it.”

Benny nodded. “Yeah, we’re screwed if we sit down here. The longer we sink into this mud, the less chance we have of getting back out.”

“Okay, but why did they stop?” Chuck asked.

“Maybe they’re out of ammo, like us.”

“Or maybe they’re waiting to see if we’re still alive. Or waiting for us to do something stupid.”

Dean shrugged. “Then why keep ‘em waiting. Fuck it. If we can make it up, we go up. We’re dead if we sit down here and I don’t know about you, but this isn’t how I want to go out. We find out what the score is, fight it out on the surface and if we can’t take them down, then at least we go out with our guns blazing.”

Benny gave him a crooked smile. “Hell yeah, brother.” At Dean’s order he swung into action, giving the crew the heads-up that they were surfacing. Dean made his way awkwardly back to the conning tower, one arm jumping rung to rung, and managed a grin for Cas.

“Hold on. We ain’t done yet.”

As they broke the surface, Dean was among the first onto the deck, holding his arm against his chest and waving off looks of concern, even if the son of a bitch did hurt like a mother. 

Behind him Cas materialized, looking like a bloody mess with wet, red streaks diffusing through the saltwater on his face and neck.

Dean held onto the rail, not relishing the idea of another near-overboard experience, and patrolled the bridge. Water was still draining off the hull.

Nothing out there.

Had the motherfuckers taken on water? Screwed up a depth charge and blown up their own damn ship?

“Hey, Captain, look!”

Dean turned to the bow just in time to witness one of the most beautiful sights on God’s goddamn green Earth.

Barely a half-mile off, one fucking gorgeous Gato-class submarine was surfacing in all her glory.

Dean’s knees went wobbly with relief and he bent over the railing, closing his eyes as the crew whooped and waved. He glanced at Cas, whose open-mouthed awe gradually slipped into a stunned smile.

By the time Dean got to the radio shack, Ash was already there. Thankfully, it was one of the few systems still in working order. Dean identified himself and awaited a response.

“ _Colt_ , this is _Ponyfish_.”

Dean closed his eyes and laughed. Walt and Roy. He knew these guys. Total assholes, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

“ _Ponyfish_? What the fuck kind of a name is that for a United States submarine, _Ponyfish_?”

“You know while you lazy assholes were napping down there, there was a Jap battleship up here crapping ashcans all over the place? Coulda hurt somebody.”

“Well, we figured we’d set you boys up with a nice turkey shoot so you can get a shot at actually sinking something for once.”

“Nice talk from somebody whose bacon we just saved.”

“Yeah, thanks for that. Beautiful timing. I don’t suppose you could’ve let them float a little longer so we could finish ‘em off? Fuckers really rattled us. Put a hole in one of my crew.”

“Sorry to hear that, _Colt_. Do you need assistance?”

“Got a dry dock handy?” Fuck if the _Colt_ was going to need every day and more of those two weeks at Pearl Harbor. “Actually, yeah, our doc has got his hands pretty full here. Yours busy?

“Not so busy we can’t spare him a while. We’ll send him over.”

“I owe your whole boat a round next time we’re at Pearl.”

“You and I both know that this war will end and we’ll be on to the next one before I see a drop of that, _Colt_.”

“But it was a nice offer.”

“Yeah, you’re a real prince.”

Dean wandered back to the control room, feeling the adrenaline seep away. He finally let himself look at his arm and understood why everybody was treating him like the walking dead. Blood ran thickly all the way down from beneath the bandage, pooling in his bent elbow. It hurt a lot more, now that he knew what it looked like.

“They’re gonna send their doc over to help out,” Dean told Benny, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Good. Maybe you want to have a seat and wait for him.”

“Nah, I’m okay.”

And that was the last thing he said before the lights went out.


	4. Chapter 4

Honolulu was just as they’d left her in January, a glistening, gorgeous paradise on Earth. It had rained the whole last day of their trip, but just as they approached Oahu the sun came out behind Diamond Head and warmed the faces of the crew on deck. After three months of cigarette smoke and diesel fumes, the scent of green earth wafting off the island was pretty damned sweet.

The _Colt_ practically groaned in relief as the props stopped spinning and she coasted the last few feet up to the dock. Up on the shears a broom was freshly affixed to announce a clean sweep, letting the world know they’d had a good run. The usual parade of guys in khaki came blustering aboard the minute the gangway was down and the crew gathered on deck in their whites, all clean and freshly shaved for the first time in months, to stand impatiently at attention as Dean dealt with the elbow-rubbing bullshit.

Behind and to his right was Benny and to his left was Cas. Somebody from the Army emerged from the crowd, saluted and shook Cas’s hand intently. Dean smiled slightly over his shoulder, watching as Cas nodded respectfully in reply, square-jawed and serious in the face of a superior officer. Cas caught him at it and narrowed his eyes just perceptibly, just enough to tell Dean to fuck off before turning his attention back to his dutiful half-conversation. Dean turned back to Benny, still grinning.

“Not gonna be the same without the flyboy around, huh?” Benny asked under his breath.

“At least I’ll get my bunk back to myself,” Dean replied, lying easily. He would’ve been just fine sharing that bunk with Cas for the rest of the damn war.

“Ah, you’re gonna miss him. Hell, I am. He was doing half my job for me, keepin’ your head screwed on straight.”

“Sorry, Benny. You knew what you were signing on for.”

“Shit, any chance I can still get a transfer?”

“Over your fucking dead body.”

Dean laughed with him, but he knew how right Benny was. In a couple of weeks he was going to be back on the _Colt_ with his eighty guys, and Cas wasn’t going to be one of them.

But that was later. In the meantime, here they were, in Honolulu. And that wasn’t anything to cry about.

As it turned out, they only got six more days together before the Army had Cas scheduled to head back out to the Marianas and into the cockpit of another P-51. It wasn’t enough, but they didn’t gnash their teeth over it. It was all frosting, Dean told Cas. No point in making it bitter.

Cas accepted the timeline in stoic silence. He didn’t say as much, but Dean knew he felt the pull back to his squadron. He had friends back there, and they were at war without him. He could almost watch Cas shore himself up, start to brace himself to go back in.

This time when they went to the yellow house, they went together. Dean kept his room at the Royal Hawaiian, but he got leave to camp out with Cas for a week or so. It wasn’t unusual for him to take off for a little alone time when they hit port, so nobody thought twice about it.

He and Cas walked up the steps side by side, and before Cas put the key in the lock they gave each other a look and smiled. Home sweet home.

They shed bags and gear and khaki clothing in a trail through the house and crawled into bed, finally on a normal fucking mattress with all the room in the world. They tangled themselves around one another anyway, and dropped off to sleep.

 

Day one was mostly sleeping.

Sometimes in bed and sometimes in the yard, under the sun. And there was getting food, and eating it. And at night, finally, sex. Dean’s arm was still sore, so Cas had pressed him into the mattress and insisted on doing the heavy lifting. Dean didn’t complain.

Afterward he flipped Cas over and lavished kisses on every part of him, slow and thorough like they never had time for on the _Colt_. He luxuriated in the smell of Cas’s skin, warm and salty in the clean air off the off the ocean. He smiled down at Cas’s face, brushed damp hair back from his forehead and sealed their mouths together.

 

Day two started with Cas, still committed to the sleeping plan, sprawled out as far as he could reach across the sheets.

Dean, showered and dressed by 0800, sat beside him and slapped his ass under the linen. “Up and at ‘em, soldier. Rise and shine.”

A single hand, more specifically a single finger, emerged from the bedclothes.

“Oh, come on. I’m not sitting around here watching the clock tick. Let’s go have some fun.”

“This is fun.”

Left with no choice, Dean grabbed an ankle and pulled. Cas let out a startled yelp and laughed as Dean dragged both him and the sheets to the floor. Despite Cas’s best efforts to bundle himself up out of Dean’s reach, he was quickly frogmarched to the bathroom, strong hands pressing his bare shoulder blades.

Before long they were gathering up a bunch of guys in Jeeps for a beer-fueled joyride through some hilly park that Dean loved but couldn’t pronounce the name of. The park’s main attraction was a B-24 that had crashed into the rock and still sat twisted and rusting in the sun, but they bypassed it without a word and instead made for one of Dean’s favorite spots on Oahu, an overlook where you could see all the way from Diamond Head to Pearl Harbor with all the city in between.

They stayed up there for a good long while, messing around and working their way through bottles of beer that weren’t quite cold. Dean sat a little apart, watching them be the stupid kids they were supposed to be, and nursed a drink.

After a while, as the guys’ conversation devolved into accounts of sexual escapades that never in a hundred years actually happened to them, Cas wandered away. He stood right at the railing with his arms crossed around him, the neck of an empty bottle loose in his fingers. It was late afternoon and he was wearing a new pair of sunglasses. His skin soaked up all that peachy Hawaiian light and diffused it back.

He glanced over his shoulder and broke into a big, cocky grin when he caught Dean staring. Dean shrugged unapologetically and joined him.

He took a swig, turning out to the ocean without really seeing it. “I’m gonna come back out here sometime,” he said. “After.”

“Yeah?”

He looked at Cas. “Yeah.” And he realized that in his mind’s eye, when he was back here, Cas was, too.

But Cas didn’t reply. He smiled, absently scraping the bottle’s wrapper with a thumbnail, and turned back to the water.

 

Day three, they were apart most of the time. They went together to check up on Adam in the hospital and congratulate him on the efficiency of his military service, heading home after one patrol. Then Cas went off to Hickam while Dean kept tabs on the crew at the Royal Hawaiian and sat through a debrief at the submarine base. He did his best to look penitent as he was bureaucratically told off for his little encounter with the Japanese rail system. He failed miserably, if the exasperation on Benny’s face was any indication.

At night they came back together again to meet just inside the door and strip each out of their uniforms, all the way down to the skin, and fuck on that English Rose couch like nothing mattered in the world beyond the walls of that house. Then they had a nice dinner.

Dinner after sex was Dean’s favorite kind of dinner. They leaned back in their chairs, tired and full, still damp from a shower, and didn’t talk about a single thing of any significance beyond the kitchen. The air was full of the homey scent of fried onions and roasting meat. Their feet touched under the table, and the rest of the world felt a hundred miles away.

 

Day four was when things shifted. It was the beginning of the second half, and time felt heavier from the moment they woke up. They held each other just a little closer and stayed in bed a little longer.

Neither of them suggested anything, so they spent the day in a pause, quieter than usual. Dean had a lot of work to do, but he set himself up at the kitchen table and took care of it there. Cas puttered. He weeded the flower beds unnecessarily, made coffee they wouldn’t drink, flipped through the paper on the counter. After dinner he finally retreated to the living room to read, his legs draped over the arm of an ugly wingback chair with Ella singing quietly in the background.

Or so Dean thought.

“Dean.”

“Hm.”

“Dean.”

“What, Cas?” He didn’t look up from the _Colt_ ’s refit report. “Damn. We’re already behind schedule. No way we’re making our target departure. I had a feeling this was gonna happen.”

“I have a question for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Can you jitterbug?”

He looked up to see Cas standing in the doorway, leaning against the moulding with a speculative squint. “What?”

“It’s a form of dance. Popular with the young people these days.”

“I know what it is, Cas.”

“So?”

Dean leaned back in his chair and flicked his pencil rhythmically against the edge of the table, his mild irritation at the interruption fading at the look in Cas’s eye. “Maybe I can.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Maybe I’m not too bad.”

“Because I had you figured for a ballroom-only kind of person. Left-right, left-right, back and forth. That kind of thing.”

“Well, you figured wrong.”

“Really. Hm.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Of course I do. I’m sure you’re very good.”

Refit reports forgotten, Dean dropped the pencil and pushed his chair back noisily. He stalked up to Cas. “Okay, where are we doin’ this?”

Cas smirked and stepped backward into the living room.

Dean laughed as he rounded the corner. How Cas had slid all that furniture across the rug so quietly he had no idea, but the rearrangement left just enough room for a couple of full-grown men, if they stuck very tightly together, to pull off a little swing.

Cas pulled his arm out from behind his back to reveal the red, white and blue cover of a V-disc. Glenn Miller, of course. He tapped it with one finger.

“Oh, I see how it is. So you think you got a pretty good handle on how to push my buttons now, huh?”

Cas bent over the record player, replacing Ella and dropping the needle carefully on the vinyl. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Dean snorted. “Like hell you don’t.”

At the anticipatory hiss of the needle, Cas stepped close and offered his hands with a grin that put the Cheshire Cat to shame. Dean clasped his fingers, running his thumbs in slow circles over Cas’s knuckles.

Leveraging his grip, he pulled Cas close. “Hey. Watch your step.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause everybody I dance with always ends up flat on their back.”

“Dear Lord,” Cas groaned. “Please don’t tell me that line has ever actually worked on anyone.”

Dean shrugged. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Cas rolled his eyes.

Dean had known it was _In the Mood_ before the first note played, because what else would it be? There was next to no room so they kept it close and tight, maybe even a little closer than strictly necessary. Every time Cas turned, his back brushed Dean’s chest, even if economy of space didn’t absolutely require it. When they opened up their hips might have bumped a little more than an instructor would’ve called good form.

But despite the lack of maneuvering room, they were smooth. They were good together like that. Comfortable in each other’s space. Most people would have driven each other crazy after a couple of months breathing each others’ air in tight quarters. But for them, it only put them in rhythm somehow.

Cas was good. It struck Dean that there was something practiced about it, almost formal. An image came to mind of private dance lessons, somebody correcting his posture and clapping in a staccato rhythm so he’d never step on some debutante’s pricey shoes.

Dean, meanwhile, only had what instinct gave him. Nobody had ever drilled any poise into him. But he didn’t need it. For him, it was all feeling. He couldn’t sing worth a crap, but movement he knew. Cas’s body he knew. How it fit with his, that he really knew. And he could make something good out of that, just by pure instinct.

Dean glanced at Cas’s flushed face, and the expression there was so content that he was caught in it for a second and almost missed a step. Cas grinned that brilliant grin that Dean rarely saw outside the bedroom—the goofy and unguarded one that revealed his gums, where you could see how his nose maybe wasn’t quite classically perfect. Dean soaked it up, suddenly desperate to memorize every line. In his distraction he went clockwise when he should’ve gone counter and they banged into each other head-on.

Cas snorted. “You want to stare or dance?”

Dean smiled and caught Cas around the middle, colliding their bodies gracelessly. He slowed them into a dissonant spin, heedless of the music, and let their momentum drain away. Left-right, left-right, back and forth. Hey, it was a classic for a reason.

They ended like that, pressed together, close enough to feel the heat of one anothers’ breath. As the vinyl whispered again on the turntable, Dean stayed put and took in Cas’s face.

Oh, God, he didn’t want him to go.

Cas tilted his head. “What?”

“Just thinking.” He touched the cleft in Cas’s chin with his thumb. “After you, I don’t think I’m ever gonna be happy dancing with anybody else.”

Cas stopped swaying with him. Now they were just standing, holding each other.

“So, Cas, what are you doing... after?”

Cas blinked. His smile stuck but faded into something... just a little less. Dean watched emotions he couldn’t name flash across Cas’s face, his stomach in knots.

“That’s— I don’t know. I haven’t...” He swallowed.

“Haven’t what?”

“I haven’t thought that far. You know I don’t...” He shook his head and went to the sideboard. “You want a drink?” He began to turn bottles to look at labels. The smile was gone the second he turned his back.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Another Old Fashioned?”

“Sure.” A moment passed. “Cas.”

Cas shook a small, brown bottle. “Belay that. Out of bitters.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Cas’s glance was artificially unbothered. “You know you really are a pretty good dancer, when your mind’s on what you’re doing and not in my pants.” He pulled the stopper out of a bottle of very old, very good whiskey.

Dean frowned at the bottle. He had picked up on the whiskey thing by now. That was the drink of choice for dulling things.

“So, what do you want, Dean? A bourbon? There’s beer in the fridge.”

“I don’t want a drink, Cas.”

Cas stopped. He rested the tips of his fingers on the gleaming wood of the sideboard.

Dean spread his hands. “I kind of feel like I stepped on the third rail here.”

“I just—I’m not sure we should talk about that.”

“About what?”

“About what you were getting at.”

Dean approached. “We don’t have a whole lot of time left. This isn’t New Year’s. This ain't any fling. You’re leaving in a couple of days, and I want to talk about what happens next. After.”

Cas was quiet.

Something dawned on him, and he shifted on his feet. “Oh, shit. You, uh, you don’t want to be together.” He took a shaky breath. “Listen, I get it.”

Cas’s shoulders slumped, but he didn’t reply.

“Hey, it’s okay. I should’ve checked in before I ran my mouth. You don’t have to—”

“Stop, Dean. Don’t be an idiot. I’m clearly completely in love with you.”

His mouth was suddenly dry. “Yeah?”

“Of course.” Cas gave a slight, irritated shrug. “I’m sorry, I thought it was pathetically obvious and we just weren’t talking about it.”

Dean just stared.

Cas sighed. “Dean, I just didn’t want you to think—”

“Yeah, I am, too.”

“What?”

Dean couldn’t throw those words around. He hadn’t said it to Sam, or to Bobby, or God forbid, his father. Everybody used them, a lot of times for the wrong reasons.

“Just, back at you. Same here.”

Cas searched his face. It made Dean bristle, like he’d handed over something golden and Cas was testing it in his teeth to make sure it was real.

“Come on, Cas, you can’t do this closed-book thing with me. I’m happy when I’m with you. Are you happy with me?”

“Yes,” Cas whispered.

“Okay, good. Great. So we’ve got this. What’s the matter?”

Cas looked away and frowned. “You act like this is a good thing.”

“What?” Dean felt like they were speaking different languages, suddenly.

“Dean…” Cas trailed off. His gaze wandered listlessly around the room. “Dean, do you sleep with women?”

Okay, whatever he had been expecting, it hadn’t been that. “You mean, have I ever? Sure. Not lately, obviously.”

“And it’s easy for you? To… to do that?”

“Well, I don’t know if ‘easy’ is the word,” he replied uncertainly. “Just different kinds of complicated. But if you’re asking if I have to fake it with a girl, no.”

“Yeah. I thought so. I tried to be with women, a couple of times,” he said distantly. “It never worked. I actually hoped, for a while…” he gestured vaguely to Dean, “to be like you are. At least enough to get by. I tried.”

“Well, lucky for me it didn’t work out.” Dean spread his hands at his sides. “Cas, I’m a little at sea here. You gonna throw me a rope or what?”

Cas straightened his arms on the sideboard and braced himself. “We’ve been in our own world out here. It’s, well, it’s been incredible.” He huffed self-deprecatingly. “Probably the best days of my life, despite everything. But it’s not real. I’m very careful to remind myself of that.”

“What, you think I’m not being honest with you?”

“No, no,” Cas hurried to assure him. “But when all this ends, we’re going back to the world. The real, unforgiving world. There’ll be ties and expectations. Your circumstances will change.”

Dean hooked his thumbs in his belt. “So you think I’m gonna split once I start seeing skirts again.”

“No,” Cas said seriously. “I know you better than that.”

“Well, okay.”

Cas’s gaze grew wistful and the lines of his body sagged. “Dean, look at yourself. Do you understand that when this is over, you can have anything you want? Anything at all. The whole world will be waiting to welcome you home, call you a hero. You could run for fucking president, Dean.” His eyes fixed intently on Dean’s. “But not with me. If you’re with me, you get none of it. Less. You’ll lose things.”

“So? Who the hell wants to be president?”

“It’s easy to say that now, when it’s just us in this house. But you might regret it when you realize what this means.”

Dean crossed his arms and looked at his shoes, trying to reign in his temper. “I know what this means, Cas. I’m a grown man.”

“Yeah. I am, too. And I’ve grown up with it.” He looked at Dean with wide eyes. “It’s not an easy way to live. People are not often understanding. Even people close to you.”

Dean looked up sharply. “Let me worry about my brother.”

“We’re not talking about bringing home some war bride, Dean. People have hopes for you. I would threaten that. It’s not a small thing.”

“Cas, when it comes to Sam, I don’t do hiding.”

“No, that’s not what I—” He closed his eyes and sighed. “I don’t want to be anyone’s dirty little secret, either.”

“Okay, so we’re on the same page.”

Cas covered his face in frustration, but Dean shut up and let him pull his thoughts together.

After a moment he turned back to take another swing. “You can never take it back, Dean, once you say those words. Have you thought about what happens if it goes wrong?”

“Look, I’m not saying it won’t throw Sam for a loop. It will, sure as hell. But for most of our lives, the two of us was all we had. We stick together. That’s who we are. He’ll be okay.”

Cas shook his head and turned back to the bottle to pour himself a couple of fingers’ worth. “You don’t really understand and by the time you do, it’ll be too late.”

“So tell me, Cas. What happened with you and your family?”

That struck something. He could see it in the way Cas set the bottle down and stared at it, still gripping it around the neck. But he didn’t answer.

Dean sighed and turned away, running a hand over his hair.

“It’s not only your brother.” Cas murmured, staring at his hand on the bottle. “It’s your crew, your co-workers, your neighbors. Your mailman.”

“I know that, Cas. You think I haven’t thought about this?”

“Dean, I know you believe this is what you want.”

That blew the fuse. He snapped and kicked the ottoman onto its side. “Because it is what I want!”

Cas let a moment of silence pass. When he continued, it was barely more than a whisper. “When I started this with you, I never expected something permanent. Not in a hundred years.”

Dean cocked his head, his eyes hard. “Wait.” He shifted his feet and pointed at the floor between them. “Is this you telling me you’re ending it?”

Cas stared at the wall.

“Holy shit.” Dean stood in the middle of the room, gaping at Cas, who wouldn’t look him in the eye. “Are you serious? After all this. You’re just going to cut it off.”

A long silence.

Then Cas said softly, “I don’t think we should talk about this anymore tonight.”

“When the hell else are we going to talk about it?”

“I’m going for a walk.” Cas took the bottle in his hand and went to the front door.

“Cas—”

“I’ll take care of the mess in the morning.” The door shut firmly behind him.

After a minute of staring at the closed door, Dean wandered to the record player, which still hissed helplessly from the corner. He replaced the needle on its stand, flipped the switch to “off” and closed the lid.

He looked around the room, at the ottoman and couch and chair Cas had rearranged to make their dance floor. He pulled the pieces back into place, each one moving smoothly on its felt coasters until it hit the grooves in the rug that marked its permanent post.

When it was done, he looked at the clock. Barely 2200.

He went to the kitchen and forced himself back into his paperwork, but after an hour or so he realized he was sleeping with his head propped on a hand and gave up. He gathered the reports into his briefcase and went to bed.

Sometime in the middle of the night, he woke to find the rest of the bed still empty. He stared at the space, tamping down his worry. Cas probably wasn’t going to sleep next to him after what was said tonight.

He sat up. He just needed to make visual contact. Then he could sleep.

The house was completely dark. He’d half-expected to find Cas curled uncomfortably under a blanket on the hard couch cushions, but the room was empty.

He wouldn’t have found Cas at all if he hadn’t been smoking. Just as Dean was about to give up and go back to bed, it was the orange glow of the cigarette through the kitchen window that drew his eye out back.

Dean didn’t say anything as he came out of the house, catching the screen door behind him so it wouldn’t slam and wake the neighbors. Cas was sitting on the picnic table, feet on the bench, looking out into the darkness where on a bright day you might see a little ocean. An ashtray sat beside him, jammed with the remains of at least half a pack.

Dean climbed onto the table behind him, fitting Cas’s body into the V of his thighs. He wrapped his arms around his stomach and leaned a cheek against his hair, breathing in the scent of him over the fragrance of plumeria and tobacco in the night air.

Cas’s hand rested lightly on one knee, fingers loose around a half-smoked cigarette. Dean clasped his wrist and guided the cigarette to his own mouth, taking a deep, burning lungful. He released Cas’s hand and exhaled toward the yard, letting the smoke float away into the warm Hawaiian air.

They stayed that way for probably a good five minutes, just sitting together in the total darkness like they had all the world to themselves. It was Cas who finally broke the silence.

“When I was seventeen, I had an affair with a much older man.”

He let it hang there, like he was testing how it felt to have the words out. Dean kept quiet, more than willing to give Cas the time to string them together.

“My father worked for the State Department. That’s why we moved so often. He took a temporary post as a visiting scholar at Purdue and this man, he was one of my father’s colleagues. We were seated together at a dinner party that my parents gave. Usually I was ignored at those things, but he spoke to me, asked me questions, found me interesting. Or at least, he acted like it well enough.”

A few moments passed before Cas went on.

“In hindsight, I realize that he took advantage of me. I was susceptible. I suppose I was a lonely kid, with all the moving. It was nice, having someone like that.”

Dean rested his chin on Cas’s shoulder. The words began to flow easier.

“Of course it was a disaster. We were discovered in the—” He stopped like the words caught in his throat. “We were discovered. I’ll leave it at that. And the way it all came out, there was no hiding it. Everyone who mattered knew everything. My brother was furious past all forgiveness. My mother pretended not to understand, but she could hardly look at me after that. Neither could my father. I would’ve killed myself, but I couldn’t stand the thought of humiliating them further.”

He grabbed his pack of Lucky Strikes and pulled out another stick, chain-lighting it off the dying ember in his mouth and jamming the burnt end into the tray. “My father lived for his ambitions. He had a lot of them—for himself, for me, for Zachariah. But all that ended, right there.” He paused. “He died not long after. I can’t help but feel I had something to do with that.”

“Cas.” Dean said softly.

“I’ve never told anyone about this.”

Dean let that stand a minute. Then, quietly, he asked, “What happened to the guy?”

He felt Cas shake his head. “I don’t know. He was fired and I was sent to school in Europe. I tried to get in touch a few times but never heard another word from him. Despite everything, there are still times when I miss him.”

Dean sighed. Telling Cas his first love was a first-class dick wasn’t going to help anything.

Cas propped his elbows on his thighs. “My brother was really my only regular companion, growing up. I remember him—” he made a swaying motion with his cigarette, “—swinging me from his arm when I was little. He taught me to read, how to play baseball.” He flicked ash onto the patio. “Now he can’t speak to me without calling me a faggot.”

“Jesus.” Dean dropped his forehead to rest on the back of his neck.

“You have to understand, Dean, we used to be happy, or at least as close as most normal people get. We weren’t always estranged and broken. That was me. I was the one who broke it. It’s horrible, and there’s nothing I can do to fix it. If that happened to you I’d never forgive myself.”

“Hey,” Dean said sharply. “Nobody made your brother act like that. He could’ve been decent. He decided to be an asshole. That isn’t on you.”

“That’s not my point. Dean, you have people in your life who mean everything to you. There’s nothing I can possibly offer that’s worth that. I could never make it up.”

“Well, okay. There it is.” Dean took another drag off of Cas’s cigarette. He was calmer. He felt like the problem was out in front of them now, defined. Defined he could deal with.

“What?”

“You didn’t break your family, okay? They broke you. They all turned on you, and now you think that’s just the way the world works. But Cas, you’ve got to trust me.”

“I do trust you, Dean.”

“Nah, you don’t.” He wasn’t angry anymore, just ticking off the facts, calling it like he saw it. “You think I don’t mean what I’m saying and you don’t trust me to know my family. You’re afraid I’m gonna turn tail as soon as things get hard.”

“But Dean, it’s possible for you to have a normal—”

“Don’t even say it. And don’t tell me what I want, not ever again. Because here’s what I know. Back when we were taking those depth charges on the _Colt_ —shit, Cas, I really thought we were done. No, we were done, except for a minor miracle.

“And all that time, I sat there with you and thought about three things.” He counted them off on his left hand in front of Cas, starting with his thumb. “One, what it was gonna be like to die. Two, how I’d never see my brother again. And three, how fucking sorry I was that you and me were never gonna get a chance. That tells me all I need to know.”

Cas had nothing to say to that.

“I’ve lost too many people, Cas. I’m through with regrets. You’re not gonna be one.”

For the first time, Cas’s voice got rough. “What do you want from me, Dean?”

“I’m not asking you to sign your life away, okay? I realize we haven’t had a lot of normal. You could still wake up one of these mornings and look at me without those rose-colored glasses on and realize you want something different. I just want you to say you’re gonna be there with me after all this, so we can give it a shot. Try regular, boring life on for size, see how it fits us. Just, be together. You and me.”

Cas dropped his head into his hands.

Dean ran his hands up and down Cas’s biceps and spoke close to his ear. “Look, I’m not pretending it’s going to be easy. But whatever shit life is gonna throw at us, I’m ready to take it on.” He leaned in and held him close, cheek to cheek. “Because Cas, I can picture it, what it’s gonna be. And I think it’s gonna be good.” He smiled softly, looking off into the dark sky. “Nah, it’s gonna be great. Fuckin’ amazing.”

Cas’s body was tense in Dean’s arms. “But… how? We can’t just… just buy a bungalow.”

“Who says? Is there some rule book I don’t know about? Because we fought a damn war and I think we get to decide how we live from here on out. So come on. Just… have a little faith in me here. Okay?” He let that stand, his final pitch. He waited, letting silence drag, trying not to hold his breath.

Cas’s head tilted as he looked up at the sky. “You and me,” he said thoughtfully.

“Yeah. You and me.”

Cas took a few long, deep breaths. Then he shut his eyes and whispered, “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, okay, Dean. You and me. Let’s do it.”

Dean let out a breath, practically light-headed with relief. He wrapped Cas up in his arms and kissed his face and neck over and over, everywhere he could reach, until Cas laughed and struggled to get away. Dean didn’t let him.

 

Day five. They maneuvered around each other shyly at first, like a couple of freshly deflowered newlyweds waking up in the same bed for the first time. They said good morning quietly and lapsed into thoughtful silence as they got up and dressed, smiling every time they caught one another looking. Things had shifted, yes. But they’d moved in the right direction.

Over breakfast, Dean folded his hands on the edge of the table and tried to act casual as he took his first shot at concrete plans. “So, uh, my brother bought a house in Philadelphia.”

Cas looked up from the paper and took in Dean’s expression. “Philadelphia.”

“It’s got a lot going on. Lots of jobs. History and stuff, if you like that.”

Cas nodded, the edge of his mouth quirking upward. “Philadelphia is nice.” He tilted his head thoughtfully and Dean realized with a thrill that Cas was picturing himself there—picturing them there. Holy crap, this was happening.

“So what do you think you’re gonna do, back in the world? Keep teaching?”

He shrugged. “Mm-hm. Probably. It’s steady. Maybe do more translation work, too. There’ll certainly be demand, with all the rebuilding that’ll be going on.”

Dean took a bite of eggs and toast. “So what all do you teach, anyway?” So many things they’d never even learned about each other. Regular, boring things that didn’t have anything to do with battles and survival.

“Romance languages.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.”

“French and Italian, Dean.” He raised an eyebrow. “And Spanish, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And you? What do you want for yourself, Dean Winchester? You could stay in the Navy.”

Dean tapped his fingers against the speckled tabletop. Until pretty recently, he hadn’t thought seriously about leaving the Navy at all. He had the makings of a lifer, if he wanted it. But that would be a lot of time away, and now he had something that he didn’t want to be away from. “I don’t know yet.”

“You’ll have a lot of options. With your service record, people will want to hire you. I meant what I said last night. You could do whatever you wanted. Really.”

Cas looked at him with so much genuine confidence, Dean had to look away. “Well, I wouldn’t go quite that far. But, yeah, I don’t know. I guess there’s possibilities. I figure I’ll take a little time, see what’s out there.”

Cas nudged him with his foot under the table, returning his attention to the paper. “Not too much time. I have expensive tastes.”

Dean chuckled and caught his foot, pulling it into his lap. He ran his palm up and down Cas’s shin, wondering why the fuck this war wasn’t over already.

 

In the early hours of the morning, Cas had another nightmare. Dean suspected he had them regularly since they’d been back, but he usually kept them off of Dean’s radar. Not this time. This time he yelled loudly enough to jolt them both awake, leaving him gasping and clawing blindly in the dark.

Dean reached for him and felt the sweat through his T-shirt. Cas rolled onto him and scrambled desperately to feel his face, breathing hard.

“Hey, hey, what’s the matter?”

Cas’s hands ran down his cheeks and over his lips, like he didn’t even trust his eyes to tell him that Dean there and all in one piece.

“What?” Dean whispered. “Come on, tell me.”

“I dreamed about you.”

“What about me?”

At that he just fell apart and wept into Dean’s neck, something Dean was pretty sure Cas would never do in front of another human being if he were fully conscious.

Dean wrapped his arms around him. At least this time Cas stayed in bed and didn’t go running off to the medicine cabinet. He lay there and let Dean hold him, and that was enough to get him through. Eventually they both fell back asleep.

 

And then, day six.

They decided they shouldn’t just sit around the house. The time would stretch more if they made some memories. So they went down to the beach, had some drinks at the Royal Hawaiian, walked around town. Nothing fancy, but it got their minds off of things.

They had a good dinner, steak and potatoes and a cherry pie that they cooked up together. Or more accurately, Dean cooked while he scrambled for harmless tasks that Cas could do so he’d feel like he was helping without the potential to set anything on fire. Because it was true, Dean had learned over the course of six days and at least two inedible meals, that beyond frying up a well-done beef patty or opening a can, Cas really had no fucking idea what he was doing in the kitchen.

That was gonna be a long row to hoe, someday. But hey, there was going to be a row. And a someday. Maybe someday soon. That wasn’t anything to complain about.

It was a good thing they started early, because between courses they ended up on the living room rug, the kitchen linoleum having turned out to be too hard on the knees. Then after everything, once the dishes were done, the lights were off, and Dean had checked to make sure the doors were locked, they went to bed like any other night, except that this time Cas’s bag was packed in the corner.

 

Dean woke to Cas’s face above him, staring down. As Dean’s eyes opened, Cas smiled. It was just barely light out.

“You going?”

“Yeah. Don’t get up.”

Dean grabbed his sleeve. “I can walk you out.”

Cas shook his head and kissed him. “I like the idea of leaving you right here, just like this.”

Dean ran the cloth of his sleeve between his fingers. “Philadelphia, right?”

“Philadelphia.” Another kiss. “I’ll write as soon as I can.”

Later that day, Dean left the yellow house. On his way out, he set the key on the sideboard and thumbed the latch on the deadbolt so it would lock behind him. Once he got down the steps he turned and looked back for a minute.

Cas had told him he was welcome to stay, but Dean had had enough alone time. He needed to get back to his crew. And anyway, he couldn’t imagine staying there on his own. It didn't feel right. So he left it behind, sealing it up like a box in the attic, full of nothing but good memories. No point in getting wistful. He was going to find another one like it soon, a few thousand miles east of here.

 

 

 

 

> Two days since you took off, Cas, and Honolulu isn't the same. Hope you got out there OK. You’re already missed. Benny said we ought to trade the Army. You for Campbell. Not a bad idea.
> 
> The _Colt_ ’s still in pieces but I’m pushing them. We’ll get out there as soon as we can. All of the sudden I can’t wait to get back in it, like that’s going to get this thing done faster. Take of yourself out there. Stick to your cockpit. No drop-ins this time.

 

 

 

 

> Dean, when we’re back, let’s go for a drive. Not just a drive. I mean, a long trip. I’ve lived in so many places but I feel like there’s too much I haven’t seen. We’ll go west. We can drive through Gettysburg like Roosevelt and Churchill. We’ll camp out under the stars, and when it rains we’ll stay at terrible little roadside cabins that overcharge us for a dirty room. Maybe we’ll just keep going. See Chicago. Have you been to Chicago? It’s a great city. I’ll drag you through museums until you threaten to strangle me and then we’ll go see a game at Wrigley. Go out to hear some jazz. You’ll like that.

 

 

 

 

> Well, the relief crew’s about ready keelhaul me, but the _Colt_ ’s finally ready. I’m not surprised at the hold-ups given the beating she took but man, it’s time to get these guys back out there. They make one hell of a crew but between you and me, they’re driving me up the fucking wall. Getting lazy, getting drunk, getting hauled in by the MPs for stupid bullshit like picking fights over girls. I had to start making them run and do calisthenics and shit. Do you know how much I hate that stuff? So I make ‘em run even more and I sit and watch from a goddamn beach chair with a drink in my hand just because it pisses me off. Damn. The month of May will be halfway over by the time we get within firing range but even if it’s an empty ocean, I’d rather deal with them on the boat.
> 
> I did buy them all a round when we heard about Hitler offing himself in his little hidey-hole. Too bad all those boys over there didn’t get to do it for him, but I’ll take it.

 

 

 

 

> Haven’t heard from you in a little while. Letters are probably going haywire, now that we’re back on patrol.
> 
> I guess you’ve heard about Roosevelt, huh? Probably way before I did. I’ve got to admit, it hit me pretty hard. Harder than I thought it would. I still remember listening to him with Sammy. Whatever anybody said about him, he was always there. The guy was a fighter. Stuck by us. The only one who acted like he actually gave a fuck. Maybe he sacrificed himself for this war as much as any of us did. Rest in peace, Old Man.
> 
> Whenever I see a Mustang go over, I wonder if that’s you. Could be, huh? We could be right next to each other and not even know.

 

 

 

 

> Hey, you want to tell me what’s up? I know there’s a lot going on up there. You’ve probably got your hands full. I’ve heard about the hell raining down on Okinawa  and the raids on the Kamikaze bases. All those B-29s have got fighter escorts, don’t they? I hate that it’s all out of reach and we’re just sitting out here in the water. Haven’t seen a ship with the Rising Sun on it since you were aboard.

 

 

 

 

> Dean, I have a new plan. I’m going to buy a boat. Being on the water, I liked that. I find myself thinking about it quite a bit. We can take people out on the excursions. Fishing expeditions or tourists. I don’t know. We’ll eat what we catch. I’ll plant a garden. I don’t know anything about gardens but I can learn. I’ll buy a cottage on the shore, somewhere where people don’t stay past September. All winter, we’ll just play poker. Hand after hand. Every kind of poker. And you can cook. I’ll write bad novels. What do you think? I don’t think I can stand in front of a classroom again, I really don’t.

 

 

 

 

> Got a stack of your letters today. They all got backed up. I think I’m missing some. We’re going to have to start numbering these things. A boat sounds great, Cas. Whatever you want. You just get home. Now that things are wrapped up in Europe they’re going to point that whole war machine at the Empire and you’ll get some help up there. Almost through.

 

 

 

 

> I met a Marine today who offered me the ear of a Japanese soldier in trade for a pack of cigarettes. That’s the kind of man this war is making, Dean. All this death and evil, people acting like they’ve had their souls stripped away, for a little piece of land barely big enough to land a plane on. And these are only the stepping-stones. Imagine what the fighting will be like on the mainland when we get there. And we’re all supposed to go home afterward and live normal lives. I don’t see how that’s possible.

 

 

 

 

> Hey, you know what else might be great? We come back out to Honolulu sometime. Take a little sea voyage (you know, without worrying about getting bombed to hell), stay at the Pink Lady again without a hundred other guys around. Maybe visit that house of yours, if it isn't sold. Just sit on the beach and soak up all that blue. How's that sound?
> 
> I've got to be honest here, Cas, I worry about you a lot. I’m sitting on my ass in the middle of the water, staring at a whole lot of nothing. Some days I’ve got nothing to do but think about how you’re holding up. So give me a break here. Tell me a story or two to pass along to the guys. We can use the reminder that somebody’s doing something to move this along.

 

 

 

 

> How are things, is what you keep asking with increasing degrees of directness. The truth is, not great. Everybody is strung pretty tightly and nothing is letting up. We’ve lost some men, some that I’ve known for a long time. But what really bothers me is that it doesn’t hit me quite as hard anymore. This isn’t something I want to be used to.
> 
> I’m playing a reel back to myself, over and over again. The dinners you cooked in that kitchen, that trip up to Pu'u 'Ualaka'a (which you never could pronounce without sounding scatalogical), every hand of poker we played. Whenever anything by Glenn Miller is on the radio I remember how good a dancer you are and how you look so transported whenever you hear _Moonlight Serenade_. I miss you.
> 
> Now please put down this letter and write to me some more about how fucking boring your patrol is. It’s music to my ears. In fact, I hope you’re sitting on your ass at this very moment, going slowly insane with lack of action and totally, maddenly safe.
> 
> I miss dinners, and golf, and poker, etc. Please take care of yourself, Dean. I’ll see you soon.

 

 

 

 

> You want boredom, you've got it. My hands are practically sore from sitting on 'em. We had some excitement for a while there, though. We got called in to pick up the survivors of a destroyer wrecked by a kamikaze. There were too many to keep aboard so we ran them to the base at the Marianas. Nothing better to do, I guess. Got to see your old stomping grounds. Too bad you guys have picked up and moved on. Would’ve been great to run into you again. Dumb luck can’t last forever though, huh?

 

 

 

 

> Hey, Sammy. I’ve got some news for you. I’m thinking I’m going to hang it up once the war is done. Head home. I guess that’s Philadelphia now, if you and Jess are there. And when I get back, we’ve got some things to talk about. I mean, I have some things I’ve got to tell you. I don’t want to write it in a letter. I’ll see you soon. Say hello to Jess.

 

 

 

 

Dean held that one in his hand a long time before he mailed it. He didn’t know what else he could say in writing. _Surprise, I’m a queer. Hope that guest bed’s big enough for me and my fella._ He wasn’t good enough with words. He needed to have Sam there in front of him when we told him, so he could see his face. So Sam could see his.

The patrol wrapped up quietly. They had more fish left in the tubes than Dean would’ve liked, but a couple of dozen guys had a shot at seeing their families again thanks to the _Colt_ , and for once, he liked counting the success of his patrol in lives saved rather than the ones sent to the bottom.

On their way in, they heard about the bombs. The news was vague at first. Hiroshima and Nagasaki were flattened, apparently. Gone. Whatever hit them, it was bigger than the firebombing of Tokyo. Something new.

They huddled around the radio, listening.

_Jesus, Cas, does this mean what I think it does?_

 

The _Colt_ reached Pearl on August 14. That turned out to be a big day. One of those dates you remember, the kind that added a holiday to the calendar. The beginning of the end.

They heard before they were even on shore. It was all over the radio. Sailors were waiting at the docks to scream it at the boats coming in and get fresh parties rolling with every new crew to reach shore.

Japan was done. Thrown in the towel. Whatever Uncle Sam had dropped on them, it was big enough to drop a curtain on this whole disaster. There wasn’t going to be any bloody, inch-by-inch scramble over Japan. All those troop carriers from Europe could turn back to the USA. No war of attrition, not another dead kid. Not another bombing sortie.

It was all over.

The crew went nuts. The guys jumped around the deck and waved to the shore from the guns, whooping and hollering like grade school kids. Benny caught Garth and swung him up over his shoulder, and Ash let out a rebel yell from up in the shears. A couple of guys picked up Christian and pretended to toss him overboard.

Dean stood a little apart and felt a swell of affection as he watched them lose their shit in the light of a honey-colored Pacific morning.

The realization broke over him suddenly. _This was it._

All these guys, these crazy, quirky guys he had fought beside and survived with and wrangled for three years until they’d become as much a family to him as his own blood—they were all heading back to the real thing now. The second they hit the shore, something was going to be broken. And that was a good thing. But they were never going to be together again quite like this.

For some reason, he hadn’t really counted on that. The goodbye.

He leaned his back against the conning tower and lit a cigarette, soaking up the scene and letting them have their happiness. After a while Benny came by. He shook Dean’s hand and offered a flask.

Dean looked at it for a second and then accepted with a shrug. Benny took up the spot beside him and two of them stood there, shoulder to shoulder, to watch as _after_ came up to greet them.

 

Discipline and decorum pretty much went out the window the minute they were on solid ground. There were Jeeps full of half-drunk soldiers racing through streets; battleships shooting water from hoses in long, graceful arches off their decks; singing and whooping and kissing (and sometimes a little more than that) crowding the streets.

Dean and the crew of the _Colt_ moved through it all, grinning and raising hell and grabbing bottles of their own.

They checked in at the Pink Lady for what was to be their final stay. If shore leave had been a riot before, it was nothing compared to this.

Dean dropped the letter in the mail with a wistful smile. He didn’t have time to write, so it was only four words.

_See you soon. Philadelphia._

 

Benny gathered everybody up for the mail call, handing envelopes and packages out to the usual crowd.

As they dispersed to the bar and the beach, Benny sauntered up, a few things still in his hands.

“Hey, Dean.”

Dean grinned. “What've you got?”

“Something from Sam, looks like.” Benny handed over the envelope and frowned down at a box in his hands, eyebrows knotted. “Not sure about this one.”

“For me?”

“Sure is.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Leave it to Sam to send a care package on the last day of the fuckin' war.”

“Doesn’t look like it’s from the States,” he said, handing it over. “You know a guy named Gabriel?”

If Benny said anything else, Dean didn’t hear. The noise in the lobby melded together into waves. He stood there, looking at the return address. He didn’t want this in his hands. He wanted to set it down, give it back.

There was nudge against his arm.

He looked up. “No. I mean, yeah. A little.”

“Well, hopefully he sent something you can celebrate with. Come on. Let’s get to the bar before these guys drink it dry.”

Dean followed like Benny dragged him. He didn’t feel his legs move.

Inside the hall, a live band had already started up for the evening, playing something that wasn’t Glenn Miller. Couples danced and swung in tight circles, and Dean couldn’t make out their faces, only the blur of movement.

“Dean!” A few guys yelled from a highboy, forgetting that he was supposed to be Commander now, in port.

“Saved you the seat of honor,” Garth said, grinning and gesturing to a lone open stool amid the crush.

“Thanks, Garth.” He grinned, but it felt like a grimace. Thin and fake. He sat and held the package in his lap. “But just one. I’ve got a bunch of stuff to do.”

Chuck scoffed. “Come on, what are they gonna do? Arrest you for dereliction of paperwork?”

Dean smiled shallowly, unable to come up with a retort. He turned and waved to a waiter. “A bottle of Scotch for these guys. A good one.” He caught the waiter’s sleeve as he turned. “Make that two.”

“Okay, where are y’all going to celebrate tonight?” Garth asked, spreading his hands. “Because I just heard about this place—”

Dean felt the weight of the box under his arm. It was heavy for its size but didn’t jingle.

“Dean… Dean!”

He snapped back to find the bottles waiting. One was being poured out into tumblers. Dean grabbed the neck of the remaining bottle and stood.

“Where you going, Dean?”

“Told you, I’ve got to get going. Enjoy, guys. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Without a word, without breathing, he made his way toward the elevator. He had to hold up his key to show the guy which floor.

In his room, he set the box on the bed and sat near it. He stared at the wall. The window was already propped open by the maid. Outside, the ocean came to him. Every now and then a shout rose up over the surf. Happy, everyone was happy.

It was dusk when he reached over and opened Sam’s letter.

Jess was pregnant. In January, there would be a new baby. That was good news.

He set it aside and pulled the package to him. He scraped open the folds of the brown paper with a thumbnail.

Cas’s flight jacket was folded with the painted wings up, so there was no mistaking, no reprieve, not even for a moment.

The note with it was short.

 

> Cdr Dean Winchester
> 
> USS COLT (S.S. 438)
> 
> FPO San Francisco
> 
> CDR Winchester
> 
> By the time you pick up this letter you’ll already know why you’re getting this so maybe I don’t have to come out and say the words. It was July 16, on an escort mission over Kyushu. I was there. I made sure it cost them big.
> 
> I found your letters. I didn’t read them. But I realized that nobody else was going to tell you, and maybe you're the one who needs to know more than anybody. See, I always knew him better than he thought I did. I used to tell him that.
> 
> All of them are in here. I figure it’s best that they stay in your hands.
> 
> The flight jacket's yours, too. When he got back here his old jacket was so torn and messed up they issued him a brand new one. I don't know, maybe that did it. Lost his good luck charm. But he kept this old one around because it meant something and I couldn’t let them ship it to some jerkoff who never gave a shit. It belongs with you.
> 
> I don't know what else to say to you. Except that I should have gotten him through and I didn’t. And I'm sorry. I’m just so fucking sorry.
> 
> Cpt R Gabriel
> 
> 15th Fighter Grp 45th Sq 20th Air Force

 

 

He laid the jacket on the bed. He stared at it flattened beside him and pressed his palm against the insignia on the chest as though it was all some terrible mistake, and he could wake him up, conjure Cas out of the leather. But he pressed until he felt the rebuff of the mattress and nothing happened. Permanent vacancy. A noise came up from his chest.

Cas had been dead for a month.

Dead. Dean turned the word over in his mind.

Waves came to his ears and he wasn’t sure if it was the ocean.

Out there, the August night was sultry. He could see the water, all lit up by the moon. He should go down there. Be with his guys. But somehow, he couldn’t make himself get up.

It didn’t really matter anymore anyway. It was all done. That was what the whole wide world was celebrating tonight, wasn’t it?

How suddenly, from out the blue, everything was over.

 


	5. Chapter 5

He rang the bell.

Behind the screen, the door was stained dark with three little windows in a triangle pattern, right at eye height. The trim around it needed a new coat of paint and the doorbell button was cracked. The door stood at one end of a long, open porch, big enough for a swing. It looked out on a decent neighborhood where dads were coming home to jobs as plumbers and machinists, work that got their fingernails dirty. Kids ran around in the street and kicked up a racket. Old Fords and Chevys crowded the curb, bumper to bumper.

Dean approved. A kid could go grow up right on a street like this.

No movement arose on the other side of the door. He eyed the crack in the doorbell button, pulled open the screen door and knocked. Finally, a deadbolt clicked and he was facing down a set of wide blue eyes.

"Mrs. Winchester." He pulled a grin and whistled. “You know, you are completely out of my brother’s league.”

“Dean?” She laughed, uncharacteristically slack-jawed.

“Hello to you, too, Jess.”

“Oh, my God.” She practically strangled him with an ecstatic hug. She swatted him on the shoulder, not lightly. “You big jerk, you didn’t tell us! Get your rear end in here. Sam!”

She half-dragged Dean inside. The crowded entry was hung with sweaters and fall jackets. Shoes lined the wall. He emerged into a living room that still looked a little unsettled from the move, with bare windows and boxes stacked in corners. The house smelled like brewed coffee and something simmering on the stove.

Quick steps clattered down wooden steps and suddenly Sam was there, filling half the room. Dean had forgotten just how tall his little brother was.

At the sight of Dean, Sam froze.

“Heya, Sammy.”

Sam just stared.

“Sorry to drop out of the sky like this. I know, I should’ve called—”

“You’re back.”

Dean held out his hands. “Beat me to the punchline.”

“For good back?”

“For good back.”

For a second Sam’s expression warred between joy and tears. Then he crossed the room and grabbed Dean into a hug that was almost desperate in its grip. Jesus, how long had it been? Years. Dean wasn’t even sure how many. Way too long.

After a while Dean pulled back and gave Sam the once-over. He looked older, more angular, but he stood straight and tall, no sign of any wound. “You look good,” Dean judged. “And grown up. Almost pass for a fuckin’ adult.”

“Thanks.” Sam rolled his eyes, but never stopped grinning. Same old. “Wish I could say the same for you. How are you doing?”

“Hey, good. Great. I’m not the one who got a bullet in my ass.”

“Leg, Dean.”

“Whatever. How ‘bout you, Jess? How’s that baby?”

“Great. Everyone’s great.” Jess leaned into Sam’s side, smiling like the last piece of her world had been put back into place. The pregnancy was clear as day on her thin frame.

Dean took in the sight of them and shook his head. “Seems like just yesterday I was back on home leave and Sam was dragging me down to the dance hall to watch him give you puppy dog eyes from across the room.”

Sam grinned that stupid grin and rubbed Jess’ shoulder. “Good to be back, huh?”

“Yeah, sure is.” Dean looked around the room. “Nice place. Really nice.” A lot nicer than anything they’d lived in before, not that it took all that much.

“Well, it’s getting there, anyway.” Sam looked around with a small grimace. “Sort of a fixer-upper. I’ve got about a hundred things to do around here before the baby comes.”

“Hey, don’t worry.” Dean punched his arm. “Cavalry’s here.”

Sam sighed, chagrined. “I didn’t mean it like that, Dean. I’m not putting you to work. You’re just home.”

“Nah, it’ll be good. Like old times. Give me something to do.”

“You don’t have to.”

“It's what I’m here for.”

“Not really.”

“Come on, Sam, I’m going to be an uncle. Part of the duties.”

Sam ducked his head, vaguely dissatisfied but knowing better than to waste breath on further protests. “Weird shifting gears, isn’t it? No orders, no command.”

“Yeah,” Dean said with a nod. “Yeah, got that right.” They shared a look. There was a lot underneath it, some of the same stuff that was going on in Dean’s head reflected right back at him. He wanted to know all about it, hear about the war through Sam’s eyes, figure out what parts of his dopey kid brother were still in there somewhere and which had gone by the wayside.

Jess broke the sudden silence. “Well, I want to talk more but I’m in the middle of canning. You guys catch up and we’ll all sit down as soon as I’m done.” She stepped forward and hugged Dean again, tightly. “It’s so good to see you two back together.”

He patted her back and smiled at Sam. “Good to be back.”

She moved toward the kitchen and pointed back at him. “You want a beer?”

Dean considered the goofball he’d downed before he left the station. One probably wouldn’t hurt. “Sure, thanks.”

“Sam?”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks, Jess.”

A moment of silence passed between them before Dean found something to say. “So. House, wife, kid on the way… pretty soon a big-city lawyer.” He whistled. “Sammy, you did good. I’m proud of you.”

“Well, not a lawyer quite yet. And you, too. Skipper, huh? That’s a big deal.”

Dean’s chest clenched at the pride on Sam’s face, seeing some of the scrappy little kid he remembered from the farm in Kansas seep into this grown man that Dean only half-recognized.

“You know how it goes. The post opened up and I was handy.”

“And they could’ve gotten somebody else, but they didn’t.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Dean opened his arms. “So, you gonna show me the new digs, or what?”

Sam obliged with the grand tour, ticking off the whole honey-do list as he went. It was a big house with four bedrooms—three up, one down, all of them with flaking paint and cracked storms. The kitchen had a drafty door where the coal used to get shoveled in and a dripping sink that looked like it had seen a couple of Roosevelts in the White House. Sam was only seventy-five percent sure the furnace actually worked. The list went on and on until finally they reached the back yard with its chain link fence and well-lived-on lawn, reached by a set of rotting steps off the back porch.

Yeah, it was a project, all right.

“But the roof’s good,” Sam said, looking skyward in satisfaction.

Dean looked at him, beer halfway to his mouth. Sam smiled and Dean cracked up.

The neighbor from the house behind called and waved from her garden. After a moment’s hesitation and a look that might have been an apology, Sam led Dean over to the fence for introductions.

Mrs. Braeden took one unabashedly appreciative look at Dean in his khakis and promptly informed him that she happened to have a daughter just his age and he really ought to come over for dinner.

Dean laughed nervously and rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh—okay. Maybe sometime, once I’ve settled in.” He dug for some of his old swagger, but it was long gone. They made a few more minutes’ small talk and went back to the house, Dean’s smile dropping off his face the second they turned away.

Sam gave him a look out of the corner of his eye. “You okay?”

Dean stopped and looked around the neighborhood, yard after yard of victory gardens and laundry lines. “‘Course. I’m back. Couldn’t be better.”

“Because when I got home, I, uh, had a hard time at first.”

“Yeah? You’re doing okay, though?”

“Sure, it’s gotten better. Hey, so what you said in that letter—what did you want to talk about?”

There it was, that pain, coming up from under the pill. God, why had he ever written that?

The simple answer was, because for a long time he had thought about this every day, practically choreographed this moment in his head. He’d pictured himself awkward and excited, not unpacking much and not planning to stay long. He’d pictured himself keeping a newspaper in his suitcase just for the for-rent section in the classifieds. He suddenly recalled that he’d written to ask if Cas thought a two-bedroom would be a good idea, just for looks. He never did get an answer.

“Ah, it was nothing. Not a big deal.” Dean couldn’t even come up with a decent cover and now he couldn’t look Sam in the eye.

“Really? Because Dean, the way you were talking, I half-expected you to show up with my new Filipina sister-in-law.”

“Ha,” Dean stuck his hands in his pockets and looked away. “Nah, nothing like that. Figure I’ll see you how handle a ball and chain before I clap one on myself.”

Sam glanced at the house, smiling with those same lovesick eyes from the dance hall. “Handling it pretty well, if you want to know the truth.”

“Well, you got a good one.”

“I know I did.” But he couldn’t be distracted for long. He looked back to Dean with that sincere, Sam look on his face. “You sure it’s nothing? Because you sounded pretty serious. I mean, you wrote.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. It was stupid. Forget it.”

Sam watched his face, and whatever he saw, it apparently wasn’t convincing. “You know, Dean, if you’re having a hard time with all this... I get it. I would never tell Jess, but when they first sent me home, I climbed the fucking walls. I actually wanted to go back. And for you, it’s got to be even worse. You’ve been in for what, fifteen years? That’s a long time. Almost half of your life.”

Dean stood with his arms crossed, staring at the straw-dry grass. He squared his jaw. Sam was so fucking wrong, and Dean couldn’t even tell him. All he could do was nod. Let the lie slip right on.

Maybe Sam was disappointed at the silence, but he didn’t press. He slapped Dean’s shoulder. “So, okay. Come on, let’s go see what she’s got planned for supper. Welcome to Ration Land, by the way. It’s gonna be a change from your submarine luxury resort food.”

Dean snorted gamely. “Yeah, at least I can stand up straight here. Do I have a hunch in my back?”

“Pssh, spend some time in a foxhole and see what you think about all that headroom on your submarine.”

“Yeah, see what you think about solid ground after you seal yourself up in a jar and take a couple of depth charges.”

They went on like that for a while, and Dean had the sudden realization they were going to be running through this spiel their whole lives, back and forth, until they were old men thinking wistfully back on their glory days when they were young and good-looking. It was nice. One thing that was how it was supposed to be.

A few hours later, the three of them were laughing around the kitchen table as Jess imitated the look on Sam’s face when she dropped the big news on him.

“Sorry!” Sam choked out, red-faced and giggling. “I mean, it happened so fast. Just, bam! I thought it was supposed to take a little more effort.”

Dean folded his arms on the table and gave him a serious look. “Not for Winchester men, Sammy. Better understand the weapon you’re wielding there, or you’re gonna be needing a lot bigger house real soon.”

Jess put her face in her hands, laughing and blushing. “Oh, my God.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Dean raised his hands in surrender. “Just hope my bedroom isn’t next door to yours, that’s all I’m sayin’.” He grabbed the plates off the table, brushing off their attempts to help, and went to the sink as Sam and Jess burst into embarrassed laughter.

Sam shook his head. “Uh, gee, so good to have you back, Dean. Find that job yet?” he asked dryly. Jess swatted his arm. The laughter died down, but the smiles stuck on their faces.

Jess leaned in on her forearms, making a _V_ on the table with her clasped hands. “So, Dean. Now that the world is your oyster, what are you thinking about doing?”

Dean swallowed. It was a result of conscious effort to keep scrubbing the plates with the same energy as a second ago. He shrugged. “Whatever I can get paid to do, I guess.”

Sam joined in. “You know, the G.I. Bill actually has some pretty good perks. You can go to school for just about—”

“Nah, nah, I’m too old for all that. Rather stick to the basics, get back to my roots, stuff I’m good at. Maybe mechanic work or something.”

“Well, there are business loans, too. Hey, you could open your own place. Or buy one. Have you thought about that?”

Dean felt exhausted at the mere prospect. “I don’t think so.”

“So... what, you mean you just want to fix peoples’ cars?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“You commanded a submarine, Dean. You could handle something a little higher up the food chain than grease monkey, don’t you think?”

Dean focused on running the cloth over the plates, scrubbing off the last of the melted cheddar from the grilled cheese sandwiches. “I just want to do something simple. Somebody tells me what to do, I do it. Work with my hands.”

“Selling yourself a little short, don’t you think?” Sam asked evenly.

Dean could feel their eyes on his back. “Guess I’m just kind of tired. Probably need a little time.”

It went beyond tired, in truth. Probably went beyond time, too, but that was a line Sam would swallow. He felt heavy somehow. Slow. When he tried to pin down exactly what the feeling was, the image came to mind of the burials back on the _Colt_ , corpses swaddled in canvas and spent shells and tilted overboard to slip away into the dark. Most mornings, that was him. Getting out of bed was being tilted into the ocean, an anchor around an ankle.

After a moment, Sam spoke. “Sure. Yeah, I get that.”

Dean was quiet as he finished the last few plates. He felt himself sinking and he didn’t want Sam and Jess to have to see that. “I think I’m gonna go for a walk. Go check out the neighborhood.”

“It’s a nice night,” Jess said, pre-empting Sam. She stood and grabbed a ring from a hook by the back door. "That reminds me, here are your keys." She put them in his hand, holding his fingers for a second. “We had a new set made. We were hoping you’d stay for a while.”

“Thanks, Jess.” He looked between them. “And thanks again for having me here, helping me get on my feet. I know you got bigger things to worry about.”

“Dean, you’re my brother. You belong here.” Sam looked like he wanted to hug him, and that was Dean’s cue.

“You two have a good night. Don’t wait up.” Dean battled for a second with the old, clumsy lock and walked out, shutting the door softly behind him.

He walked until he was too exhausted to walk anymore. He found the river and sat on a bench, watching the ripples move like pointing arrows out to the ocean. It calmed him, made him feel less far away from everything.

Then he found himself a bar and ordered a beer, then a shot, and then a few more until the guy behind the counter gave the last call.

He got turned around on his way back and had to ask a disdainful cop for directions to the house. When he wrestled the old lock open and got inside a lamp was left on but the rest of the house was dark. He was relieved that Sam wouldn’t see him hammered on his first night back. Probably fire up with the questions again. He took another pill to fend off the dreams and collapsed into bed.

 

 

> Sept 22 - #19
> 
> Dear Cas,
> 
> Not much new to report, except I went to a department store today. All my old stuff got cleared out of Bobby’s attic so I was pretty much down to T-shirts and dungarees. If you can believe it, I never bought clothes for myself before. We didn’t even have department stores where we grew up. I just stood there, looking at the racks and all the choices. I had no fuckin’ idea.
> 
> Salesman finally came over to help. He gave me a look like he knew what was in my head and just started piling things on me, steering me around. Told me what looked good on me, what they’re wearing in the movies. He had dark hair like yours.
> 
> I let him sell me whatever he wanted. Must’ve come home with three bags full. He picked out this one green sweater, said it suited me. Told me to wear it home. Maybe you would’ve liked it, too.
> 
> Dean

 

 

 

He tried to avoid looking at the paper on the coffee table. One bad day he’d come across an article about all the downed American pilots who'd gotten beheaded by the Japanese and he’d decided right then and there that the world could march right on without him and he didn’t need to know a damn thing about it.

But every night a fresh one appeared, hovering around the edges of their evening conversations, always in the corner of his eye. It was just the logical place to put the paper, out where they all could see it. But to him, it was a reminder that he had to figure out what to do with himself. Make some decisions. It made him tired.

The job hunt wasn’t a big rush. He was doing okay in the money department. The Submarine Service paid top dollar, and since there was no wife or kid back home his salary had built itself up into a decent bank account for a bachelor without a lot of expenses.

But he couldn’t leach off of Sam and Jess forever, even with the rent he insisted on paying. The two of them were still trying to get to know each other as a married couple, trying to figure out how to fight and how to be around each other all the time. How to push each others’ buttons without causing any real harm. That was hard stuff to do, harder still with an audience.

Dean watched them sometimes as they bickered in the kitchen, or flirted over dinner. A couple of times he walked in on them dancing to whatever was on the radio. That was the worst. He had to plaster his face into something fond and big-brotherly, or Sam would catch it and ask him what was wrong and Dean would have to lie.

He tried to stay out from underfoot. He spent a few evenings a week at that same bar he’d found the first night. The bartenders minded their own business, and a few stools were always warmed by guys who had the same fresh-home look that he did. They glanced at one another as a greeting, and that was as sparkling as the conversation got.

Finally, on a chilly Wednesday night, Dean stuck a pen in his teeth and clawed the classifieds off the coffee table with enough pique to get a raised eyebrow from Sam. He scanned the columns, start to finish, feeling exactly equal ambivalence for every one of the possible futures stacked one on top of the other in bricks of tiny, black-and-white print. He circled a few anyway.

 

 

It wasn’t long after that when he met Lisa for the first time. He was sitting on the back porch, feet dangling over the drop-off where the rotting steps had been, smoking his way through a pack of Lucky Strikes. He was letting himself drift, waiting for a pill to kick in, when he realized Mrs. Braeden was standing at the fence, waving. Maybe she’d been calling, too.

Beside her was a young woman, probably in her late twenties, with dark hair and large, brown eyes. She stood back a little, looking embarrassed.

“Dean, you remember I mentioned my daughter, Lisa? Lisa, this is Commander Winchester.” Mrs. Braeden looked between them, practically bursting with anticipation. “She’s hardly home between the Red Cross and her job and everything else these days, you know. I thought I’d snap up the chance to introduce you.”

“Hello, Commander Winchester.” She smiled, glancing apologetically from her mother to Dean. She had a nice voice, steady and warm.

Dean crushed his cigarette in the grass and held out a hand over the fence. “Uh, hi. Please, just ‘Dean’ works fine. I’m a civilian now.”

“My mother said you’re the one who fixed our washing machine. That was nice of you.”

“No problem. I’m just—” He gestured at the house. “Just trying to keep busy.”

There was an awkward beat when all three looked at each other. He used to be good at this. His old self would’ve slapped his forehead, watching him flail.

Mrs. Braeden to the rescue. “You ought to come over for dinner. To thank you for your help.”

He looked away, unable to come up with an excuse. The disinterest was new to him. Lisa was a good-looking woman, seemed nice enough. Her mother was practically throwing out the welcome mat. In the end he felt like he couldn’t refuse.

“Okay, sure. That would be fun. Sam and Jess would probably appreciate seeing the back of me for a night.”

Mrs. Braeden laughed. “I’m sure that’s not true. But of course we’re more than happy for an excuse to take you off their hands for an evening. How’s Thursday? Seven o’clock?”

“Sure. Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll see you then.”

At the news of his plans, Sam and Jess shared a delighted smirk.

“I told you,” Jess said to Sam.

“Hey, I wasn’t placing any bets. I just thought she’d give it a little more time.”

“Are you kidding? Get while the gettin’s good, that what my mom told me.”

Sam looked thoughtful. “This puts our courtship in a whole new light.”

Dean looked between them. “What are you talking about?”

“Mrs. Braeden is a little sweet on my dear husband,” Jess told him, her face alight and teasing, making Sam blush. Jess sat up on the couch, folding a bare foot under her. “When she found out Sam has an unmarried older brother who was coming to stay with us, you could practically see the gears turning in her head.”

Sam scoffed. “More like hear the wedding bells. It’s like living next door to Mrs. Bennet.”

“Ha,’ Jess laughed. “Oh my goodness, it is. You’re Bingley.” She poked him in the ribs.

Dean didn’t bother asking. Living with two pretty sharp college kids, half of what they talked about went straight over his head.

“Well, thanks for the heads-up.”

“Really, though, Dean, don’t let her mom scare you off,” Jess said. “Lisa’s great. We’ve done some volunteer work together. I could see you two hitting it off.”

Sam looked at him and shrugged his vote of support.

“All right, I’ll give it a shot.” He smiled for their benefit. In a distant way he liked the idea of Jess and Lisa, him and Sam, all together around a table. That could be nice. Not so far back, it would’ve been all he wanted.

 

 

Dean went to the library.

He’d been in some little town libraries before. A few shelves in the back of the post-office. A single room under the watchful eye of an old lady who smelled like rose water and mothballs. But now he stared down the columned facade of the Free Library of Philadelphia and the prospect made him pause in the street. He'd never been in one like this. Looked more like the kind of place where you entombed a body than borrowed a book.

Once inside, he wandered up to a desk where a smart-looking brunette stamped cards in book jackets. “Um, I have a question.”

“Mm-hm?” She smiled politely.

“I need to find a poem.”

“Author?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“Title?”

He half-grinned and flipped his hands in a helpless shrug. “Don’t really remember that either. Sorry, I know I must look like an idiot here.”

She put down the stamp and sighed. “What do you remember?”

“It’s in Spanish?”

 

 

 

> Sept 26, #21
> 
> I looked up your poem, the one from that night. Found a copy in English. It took me a while because I couldn’t remember the name of the guy and of course I didn’t know a word of it. But when the librarian rattled off Neruda I recognized it right away. I remembered how it sounded when you said it.
> 
> So that was what you thought that night, huh? Just like that. At first sight.
> 
> You know, I wasn’t sure I should do this. I braced myself, figured I was just picking at the wound. I thought it was going to hurt. But it doesn’t. I read it, and I’m calm. Sort of like I'm hearing from you again.
> 
> What did you do to me, Cas? I’m reading goddamn poetry over you.

 

 

 

Dinner at the Braedens' turned out to be fine. Mrs. Braeden was a great cook, and so was Lisa (as Mrs. Braeden pointed out). He didn’t want to know how many rations they blew feeding him.

Lisa had a much younger brother, Ben, who was completely transfixed by Dean. A submarine commander at dinner was a pretty big deal for a nine-year-old boy. He was awestruck for most of the main course, until he understood that Dean wasn’t particularly intimidating. Then the gloves came off.

“Did your ship ever sink a Jap ship?” Ben asked abruptly, right at the end of the main course.

Dean paused, a piece of pot roast halfway to his mouth. He smiled. “You mean a boat. You call a submarine a boat, not a ship.”

“Why?”

“Because…” He waved his fork in a low circle as he scrambled for the answer. “Because we’re scrappy. I don’t know why. You just do.”

“So did you? Sink any Japs?”

Dean glanced at Mrs. Braeden, whose patient nod told him it was okay with her if it was with him. “Yeah, we sunk quite a few.”

“With torpedoes?”

Dean nodded slowly. “Mostly. A few smaller ones with the deck guns.”

“Wow,” Ben breathed, hero worship now firmly rooted. “Neat.”

Dean shrugged. “We were just doing what we had to do. It wasn’t always much fun, to tell you the truth.”

“Why? Did your crew get into fights with each other?”

Dean laughed. “No—well, yes, actually. Sometimes. There isn’t much room, so you can get under people’s skin pretty fast. Like if you had a share a room with a whole bunch of other kids. But no, we were pretty good friends, mostly. They only let people into submarines if they’re okay guys.”

“So you’re an okay guy,” Lisa observed, smiling.

“Good enough by the Navy’s standards, anyway.” He forked mashed potatoes into his mouth. “You know, Ben, we even sunk a train once.”

“What?” Ben asked, grinning. Even Lisa and Mrs. Braeden looked interested.

He told them the story, about the crazy pilot they’d picked up who had this idea. How a few of them had snuck onto Japanese shores and ended up carrying out the only ground offensive on Japanese soil of the entire war. If every member of that family wasn’t in love with him when he sat down, they were now.

That story bridged into the story of the pilot they pulled out of the water, how he turned out to be a buddy they’d just met in Pearl Harbor, and how he practically became part of the crew.

It felt good, talking about it. Talking about Cas.

“Does your crew come and visit?” Ben asked, plans obviously hatching.

“Sure, they probably will. Some of them live out here.”

“Is Cas going to come?”

Should’ve seen that one coming.

“No. No, not Cas.”

“Why not?”

Dean forked the last couple green beans absently, glancing at Lisa and Mrs. Braeden, but they didn’t pick up on it. “He, uh, he didn’t make it. He got shot down, later on.”

He clenched his teeth. Hard. He wasn’t going to let this poor kid see him lose it. But he’d let his guard down, and the fall was hard. This was why it was better not to talk about it. Lesson learned.

The table was quiet. Dean shook his head. He didn’t want to be like this. “It’s okay,” he said with a slight smile, inwardly horrified that he could even say those words.

“I’m sorry, Dean.” Lisa’s eyes were warm and sympathetic.

Dean nodded and focused on his green beans.

“Do you miss him?” Ben asked.

“Benjamin,” Mrs. Braeden warned.

“Yeah,” Dean nodded at him. “Yeah, I really do.” It was an easy thing to admit, the most basic truth about his life right now.

Ben took that in, thoughtful.

Lisa touched his arm.

“We’re very sorry, Dean.”

“They say he went down fighting. Doing his duty.” He wasn’t sure he believed in all that, but it was the kind of thing that made people nod in agreement and leave things alone.

“Like my dad,” Ben said seriously.

Dean glanced at Mrs. Braeden, but it was Lisa who explained.

“Ben’s dad died early on, at Guadalcanal,” she said softly. Dean looked at her and what he saw in her eyes brought him up short. It was familiar. He saw something like it in the mirror every day.

Then he put it together. Somehow, he’d gotten the idea—maybe been allowed to assume—that Ben was Lisa’s brother. But that wasn’t true, he realized now. Ben was her son. She was a widow. Lisa seemed too young to be carrying a loss like that around.

“Marine?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Sorry. I’m really sorry.”

A look passed between them. He swallowed.

After a moment, Mrs. Braeden took a breath and offered a change of subject. “Would you like dessert? Lisa made apple pie.”

Dean nodded. “Absolutely. Sounds great.”

Lisa was watching him, and he was pretty sure she saw how his expression slipped into something less than happy when Mrs. Braeden looked away. She had kind eyes. Dean gave her a weak smile, and she mirrored it back to him.

When he left that night, Lisa followed him out onto the porch.

“I’m sorry about Ben. He’s persistent.”

“Don’t worry about it. He’s a kid, he’s curious. I like him.”

“Well, good, because after tonight he’s going to be following you around like a puppy dog.”

“Okay, I’ll keep an eye out. Try not to teach him any interesting new Navy vocabulary.”

She laughed. “Honestly, some time with you really would be good for him, if you don’t mind him around.”

Dean understood what that was about. “Nah, I don’t mind. I get what that’s like for somebody his age, not having a dad. It’s rough.”

“It is. But somehow he’s a pretty happy kid.”

“Well, that’s all you. Couldn’t have been easy.”

She smiled, leaving the obvious unsaid. She seemed to be waiting for something, but Dean wasn’t on his game. He looked at her there in the moonlight, lovely with her hair all tied up and curled, and searched for the familiar response in his gut. Nothing.

“Hey, Lisa. You’re great.”

Her expression changed at the shift in his tone. “Oh.”

“Really. And I know Sam and Jess think so, too. I just—I don’t think I’m very good company right now.”

She leaned back on a column and looked out over the street, suddenly sad. “I can understand that.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess you can.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and followed her gaze. After a moment, he said, “You know, if you want to just get out sometime, no strings…  just go do something with a—” he gestured between them, “a grown-up friend—Jesus, listen to me. I used to be really smooth, you know.”

She laughed again. It was nice, warm and forgiving. “I believe you. And a grown-up friend would be nice.”

He pinched his forehead. “Let’s forget I ever said that, okay? And I’m happy to hang around with Ben, too. Get him out of your hair once in a while. He sort of reminds me of Sam, back when he was younger.”

“Thank you.” She smiled sadly and squeezed his hand. “You are a good guy, Dean.” She stepped toward the door. “I’d better get in and put him to bed, try to talk him out of running away to join the Navy.”

“Yeah, okay. Thank you again for dinner. It was really good.”

“You’re very welcome. I’ll see you, Dean.”

“Sure.”

When he got back Sam and Jess were reading on the couch, quietly dying of curiosity.

“Great girl, like you said.” He rubbed his neck. “I just, I don’t know.”

Jess’s face fell but Sam nodded.

“Hey, no pressure. You’re just getting back. If you want, maybe we could have her over. Play some cards. Socialize a little without the whole family.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He stood there, hands in his pockets, nodding unconvincingly. “I’m pretty tired. Think I’m gonna turn in.”

“Oh, Dean.” Jess pushed herself up and made for the table beside the entry. “Something came for you. Return to sender.”

She held out an envelope, and Dean felt it like a punch to the gut.

He didn’t need to open it to know what it said.

_See you soon. Philadelphia._

It took him a second to reach out and take it from her. He held it uncertainly in his hand and stared at Cas’s name written out in blocky letters, feeling it like an accusation.

He’d forgotten all about it, that hasty letter he had mailed in the minutes before everything had broken down, back when he still thought he was headed home to ever-after. The letter's return trip had probably missed him at Pearl and followed him all the way to Philly, to land in Sam’s mailbox that afternoon covered in a rainbow of ink and stamps that announced in loud, capital letters that the recipient was out of reach.

“You okay, Dean?” Sam had looked up from his textbook and was examining Dean closely.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “I’m good.”

“Who was that to?”

“Just an old buddy.” Even he could hear how his voice was off, too rough and tight. “I’ll send him a Christmas card. See you guys in the morning.” He left, brushing off the way they looked at him as he turned away.

He sat on the bed and stared at the envelope. He tore the flap open with gentle fingers.

_See you soon._

Dean looked at those words, scratched across the _Colt_ ’s stationery. He ran his fingers along the lines. Just for one moment, he let himself test what that would feel like, to know that Cas was still out there, just waiting for dismissal so he could be on his way. Head home.

That was a mistake, he realized, as the grief hit him so hard it folded him in half, doubled him over his knees and left him choking to keep from making any noise that Sam and Jess would hear. He folded the letter back along its creases, afraid he’d mess it up, and slid it into its envelope. He set it on the dresser, address side down. In the morning he would stow it away with the others.

He stared at his room. His pathetic, bare-walled room in his brother’s house, with a duffel bag under the bed and a bottle hidden in the closet. It was too small. He had to get away.

He headed to the front entry and grabbed his coat. “Changed my mind. Think I’m gonna go out.”

“It’s ten o’clock, Dean.”

“See you in the morning then. Goodnight.”

That night he drank fast and hard, until he couldn’t stand up straight, let alone think. Somehow, Sam appeared. Maybe the bartender knew him, or maybe Sam had come to get him on his own. He never asked.

Sam hustled him into his car, stopping along the way so Dean could vomit in the gutter. He didn’t say anything. Dean sat with his forehead on the passenger window and let the world gauze over.

 

 

> Sept 30 #22
> 
> I’ve been having a real shitty time. Dreaming about you a lot. Dreams where we’re trying to pull you out of the water but you’re caught on something and it drags you deeper and deeper. Or you’re in your plane, and it’s all mangled up like the one in Honolulu, and you’re burning. You’re screaming for me, but I just can’t move. I wake up and I’m sweating and yelling your name. At the top of my lungs I’m yelling.
> 
> I can’t even sleep after, I get so riled up. I have to find a bottle of something and sit on the couch ‘til I hear Sam and Jess get up. Jesus, I’m so fucking tired.

 

 

 

Dean straightened his tie in the mirror, trying not to look too closely at his face and the dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t slept much that night, and the alcohol still buzzed in his system. He was going to need to stop at the drugstore and pick up something to put him out if the booze wasn’t doing the job.

There was a knock on the door. When he called, “Yeah?” Sam stepped in.

“Seeing about a job today,” Dean said, trying to keep his tone light.

“Good, yeah. The one at the grocery store?”

Dean nodded curtly, catching Sam’s frown in the mirror. The A&P was the first place to call. Dean wasn’t picky.

“That’s, that’s good. Hey, you okay?”

Dean glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Because... you were yelling in your sleep again last night.”

Dean kept his face neutral. “Yeah?”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “Dean, who’s Cas?”

“Can we talk about this later?”

“I’ve been trying to talk about this since you got back, Dean.”

“Fine, but I’m on my way out the door.”

“Yeah, there’s always something. Come on, what’s so bad that you can’t even tell me one thing about it? It’s just us. Jess is at the doctor’s office.”

Dean laid his palm on the wall, willing himself not to fly off the handle. “Now’s not the time, Sam.” He was too brittle for this today.

Sam folded his arms and leaned back against the door. “You keep pretending things are okay, but I know you, Dean.”

Dean dragged his hands down his face, silently begging Sam to let it go. “Yeah, well, it’s been a few years. Maybe you’re a little rusty.” He made for the door.

“Wait, Dean.” Sam stepped in front of him. “I’ve woken up like that, too. It’s not just you. I’ve scared the shit out of Jess more than once.”

“So? So what? You want to swap bad dream stories now? Want to play psychoanalyst? It was a war, Sam. Shit happened. I don’t need you pat my head and say it’s okay, ‘cause some things just aren’t okay, and you damn well know that. So grow the fuck up.”

Sam stared back at him, stung. “Geez. Sorry.”

He managed to get himself under control and look Sam in the eye. “I didn’t mean that. Look, I can't do this now. Just let me get out of here, okay?”

Finally Sam relented. “Okay. Okay. But when I say you’re not the only one, I mean it. I just want to be able to talk to you, Dean. I’ve got some things—” At his side he flicked his thumb against his pointer finger, a little obsessively. It was something Dean had seen him do a lot, something he hadn’t done before. “There’s nobody else I can—It would just, help me out.”

That was enough to throw cold water on him.

He used to be a good brother. He had planned to keep that up, to get back to where they left off. Help Sam out. That was what he did. Especially now that there was kid on the way. But he hadn’t even asked Sam about the war or how he was doing, even though the questions burned in him. It just felt too dishonest, letting Sam confess, watching him think that they were on the same page when they weren’t even in the same fucking book.

He really was an asshole. “Fine. Yeah. But you’ve got to understand, there are some things I don’t want to talk about. Not even to you.”

“We’ve all got those things, Dean. I spent three years in combat.”

Dean looked at his brother and remembered how lucky he was to have Sam there with him at all, how close he’d come to losing him, too. For a second he considered what that would’ve meant. He wouldn’t have survived it. There was no way.

He hooked a thumb in his belt. “Okay. Okay, you’re right. Hey, let’s get a beer tonight. My treat. For being a jerk. You can talk about whatever you need to talk about.”

“If you’re up for it.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“That sounds good. That would be great.” Sam looked so damn pleased.

“Okay,” Dean said, dredging up some fraternal bravado. “Tonight. You, me, and a couple of bar stools.”

“Yeah. Good. See you tonight.”

Dean walked out of the house, wishing he’d had coffee and breakfast but mostly just glad to get the hell away.

Part of him had wanted to say it, right then and there. Just spill it all. Sam had asked, and Dean could have told him. Told him more than he ever wanted to know.

But Sam wouldn’t get it. It wasn’t fair to expect that of him. It was too much. Even if he got past everything else, Sam had never known Cas, never seen him and Dean together. He didn’t know how good they had been, what it meant that Cas was gone and Dean was still standing. Sam couldn’t see the pieces of great, broken things in the dust, the shards of a life that Dean had to live between.

And the truth was, it would gut him to see all that on Sam’s face. To reveal this thing, this bleeding and raw thing that ruled his waking hours and stole his sleep, that made him question the value of all this time that he figure out how to fill now, and then to watch Sam frown, doubt, maybe tell him it wasn’t what he thought it was…

Yeah, that would be it. A bridge too far. Some wounds were better left covered.

 

 

The dreams weren’t always terrifying and violent.

In one, he was on the bridge as the _Colt_ put out to sea and Cas was there on the shore, leaning against a Jeep. He smiled and raised a hand, and Dean waved back. There was a chill fog that hadn’t been there in real life and it enveloped him in a moment of peace.

Sometimes they were nonsensical. Like the one where he and Cas lived in an old farmhouse just like the one Dean grew up in, and Cas kept a flock of birds in the kitchen.

And once he opened his eyes and Cas was sitting over him, smiling down just like he did that last morning.

“Hey,” Dean whispered. “Where you been?”

Cas just smiled. It was dim and Dean couldn’t quite make out his face, but he could touch him, run a finger down a cheek.

“I can’t see you. Come here.”

Dean blinked and he was awake, alone in his room. He covered his eyes with the heels of his hands and tried to breathe.

 

 

 

> Oct 3, #24
> 
> I came home the other day and Sam and Jess were standing there in the living room, dancing again. The radio was playing _It’s Been a Long, Long Time_ , which it does every fucking ten minutes. They were looking at each other like the rest of the world just didn’t exist.
> 
> I watched them and it hurt. I mean, it was actual pain. For just a minute I was back in the yellow house, with all the furniture moved off to the side. It was you and me, and we were happy.
> 
> I hate that song now. I hate every damn thing that Glenn Miller ever wrote. A little piece of me is glad he’s not around to write new ones so I don’t have to listen to them all the goddamn time. I hate everything on the radio, everything that plays on the jukebox at the bar. It’s all you. Every note. It’s you.

 

 

 

The days went by. He started to hear from his crew, where they’d landed, what they were up to. How many had babies on the way already. How many came home to kids they’d never met… how Christian had come home to one with a birthday that didn’t quite line up with his last shore leave. Ouch.

Benny was doing well for himself. Still in the Navy but happily posted in New Orleans, working on winning back some old flame. Around the edges his letter sounded a little cautious, asking Dean how he was in so many words, probably remembering how he hadn't been able to carry on a conversation the whole way back. Dean wrote back and told him he was doing just fine. Everybody was fine.

They didn't mention Cas by name, just like they didn't talk about any of the others they'd left behind out there.

He went out with Lisa once. They saw a movie. _Love Letters_ , it was called. Dean wasn’t so keen on it based on the title, but it turned out to be some batshit crazy drama involving murder and amnesia, so in the end he didn’t mind.

He dropped Lisa off and drove around the block, pulling up to the curb in Sam’s car to see Sam himself on the porch.

As he approached he tossed the car keys to his brother. “What’s up?”

“There’s somebody here. Jess is talking to him.”

“Yeah, and...?”

“He’s a pilot. Says he knows you from the war.”

The ground shifted under Dean’s feet. He managed to keep upright but didn’t hear what Sam was asking him. He lunged up the steps into the house, stumbling on discarded shoes in his haste to get into the living room.

A guy with sandy blond hair turned and looked at him.

Dean drew ragged breath. “Gabe.” It was the guy from the Jeep. The guy he’d later learned was Cas’s buddy, who'd turned up in Cas's stories, his letters. The guy who knew about them. The only one who did.

“Wow. Ding-ding-ding. Pretty good, given that we’ve never been properly introduced.” Gabriel stood and held out a hand.

It took Dean a second to realize that he had to move. He took the offered hand limply, letting Gabriel do the work. “Dean Winchester.”

“Oh, believe me, I know.” Gabe smiled, and it was plain that there was something not right about him. He moved with a little tremor and his eyes were hooded.

“So, uh, what brings you to Philadelphia?”

Gabe’s gaze flicked toward Sam and Jess. “I’m finally off the hook, heading home to Brooklyn. Thought I’d look you up.” He gave a forced smile. “And I have something for you.”

“Yeah?” Dean’s mouth went dry.

“So you guys never heard about Cas, huh?” Gabe grinned at Sam and Jess, who were watching the proceedings like an Agatha Christie drawing room mystery was playing out in front of them.

Jess shook her head, completely at a loss.

Sam glanced at Dean.

“Mutual friend. Good pilot. Big square. Didn’t make it.” Gabe shrugged. “But I found a little memento, something Dean-O here might like. Suppose I could’ve mailed it, but I heard so much about you, kind of wanted to meet you in person.” He smiled, and it wasn’t right.

He reached into his pocket and when he held out his hand again it trembled. Between his index and middle fingers was lodged a small, white square, just a couple of inches across. Dean froze but Gabe nudged it toward him, and he finally reached to accept it.

He turned it over, and there was Cas. The date on the back of the photo said ‘42 but he looked much younger, like he had aged a lot by the time Dean met him. He stood beside an old P-26 Peashooter, hands jammed into the pockets of the jacket Dean now kept tucked away in the same chest where Sam kept his war stuff. Cas’s hair blew up a little in the wind, and he had that squint on face, like he was looking out at Dean and trying to figure out if that was the man he remembered.

Dean clenched his jaw, looked away for a second and blinked. “You got another one around, for yourself?”

“I’ve got a memory like a steel trap.”

“I can’t take this.”

“You saved his life. One up on me, right?” He smiled that tight grin and Dean’s stomach turned. “You hang onto that.” He waved. “Anyway, I wouldn’t mind lugging a few less memories around.”

“Thanks,” Dean whispered. He hadn’t really wanted to give it back. He struggled to take a breath. “I didn’t have any.”

Gabe looked like he was ready to fall to pieces, too, but he still smiled and nodded jerkily. “I’m glad he ran into you. Before that, he looked more like me.” Gabriel grinned. Suddenly he held his hands out at his sides. “Okay, well, it’s getting late. I’d better hit the road and let you folks turn in.”

“Going to to the station?” Dean asked. “Let me give you a lift.”

Gabe nodded. “Hey, that would be swell.”

A few minutes later, he was back in Sam’s Ford. It was hard to figure out what to say. He wasn’t used to this, having someone else around who knew the story. Or at least, knew enough.

“Do you know his brother?” Dean asked.

Gabe glanced at him. “No, but I’m on my way there next. I have some other stuff I figure should go back him. Can’t wait. Everything I’ve heard sounds delightful.”

“Give him a kick in the teeth from me.”

“With pleasure.” Gabe smiled and looked out the window. “You guys had some plans didn’t you?” He turned and stared directly at Dean, like Cas used to. Maybe it was a pilot thing. “He never used to talk about what came next. Not a word. Then all of the sudden, he gets back from his little pleasure cruise and he’s asking me if I’d ever been to Philadelphia, writing letters to people he knows from around here… and then I look you up, and guess who’s in the City of Brotherly Love?”

Dean pressed his lips together and rested an elbow on the door.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to lay it all out for me. I just wanted to say I’m sorry that’s not going to happen. You don’t even know how much.” His voice wavered and finally he sobbed, just for a second, before he shoved it all back down. "It’s all so fucked up." He pinched his eyes, then let out a breath and turned to look out the window.

Dean blinked and chose not to think about it, keeping his focus on the road.

At the station Dean parked and went in to wait, over Gabe’s objections. He made him tell him about Cas, all the stupid things Cas wouldn’t have told him himself. The embarrassing things, the fuck-ups. He got the whole story about his breakdown that landed him on Honolulu. It turned out that Gabe really did beat the shit out of him on the tarmac before the MPs got there to arrest him. Gabe’s smile seemed genuine by the time his train arrived, his hands a little calmer. And Dean felt a little lighter, too.

They parted with a handshake and a promise that Gabe would let Dean know where he landed, so they could keep in touch. Dean didn’t know how, or what they’d say to each other, but it felt better knowing Gabe was out there. Two guys with the same hole shot through them.

All the time, he kept that picture in his jacket pocket and ran his finger along the edge to assure himself it was still there. Later that night, he would sit on his bed and hold it in the lamplight, recommitting every curve of Cas’s face to memory.

 

 

> Oct 9, #26
> 
> Your buddy Gabe came by last night. He gave me a picture of you. You really were one good-looking son of a bitch, you know that?
> 
> No wonder I’m so damn ruined.

 

 

 

Dean was in the living room reading the paper when there was a knock at the door. No one else was around. It was an unseasonably warm day and the windows were open, Jess’s curtains bowing with a gentle breeze. He fiddled with the lock and the door swung open.

Cas was there, clear as day and beautiful in his service uniform.

He had his duffel in his hand. He looked fucking irritated.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Dean’s laughter burst out of him, sudden and joyful.

He awoke with a start. The darkness of the bedroom was complete next to that sunny afternoon. It felt less real.

“Cas?” he whispered.

He got up and wandered to the living room. All the windows were shut, the curtains still. He poured himself a drink out of Sam’s stock and sat on the couch for a long time, nursing it.

 

 

A couple of days later, he suggested to Sam and Jess that they invite Lisa over for cards. Jess looked like she wanted to plant a big, sloppy kiss on his face and practically jumped to pick up the phone, which was something given the size of her belly these days. Sam smiled thoughtfully at him from his seat at the kitchen table.

Jess came back with Saturday night marked on the calendar and a couple of ideas for dinner and drinks. Dean nodded and kept himself carefully open to her enthusiasm. Sam was surprisingly reserved about it, which seemed off. But Dean just responded amiably to everything Jess suggested, even offered to do some of the cooking. He didn’t want Jess on her feet all day, just for this.

Once the plans were set and Jess had left the room, Dean asked quietly. “What’s up? You not on board with this all the sudden?”

Sam shrugged. “No, I think it’s great, if it’s what you want.”

“I’m the one who suggested it, aren’t I?”

Sam leaned his elbows on his thighs and leaned in closer over the tabletop. “I just don’t want you to do this to make us happy. You don’t have to tell me what all went on out there, but it’s pretty clear that you’re still working some things out. I’m just afraid we pushed you and maybe you're not ready.”

Dean nodded and rapped on the table. “Don’t worry, Sammy, it’s good. I’m good.”

Sam sat up straighter. “Okay. That’s great. I’m glad.”

Sam didn’t believe him.

 

 

The night rolled around, and it went pretty well.

They had a few drinks. Dean told a couple of stories from his first few weeks as Assistant Manager at the local A&P. The kid who locked himself in the storeroom, the angry call from a mother whose son he’d fired because he couldn’t count change, the bat that flew in and drove an old lady to hide behind a bin of potatoes.

Lisa laughed with him and caught his eye. He found himself catching hers back. When he looked at her, he had a sense of familiarity, like a reflection.

Sam and Jess were delighted to have another couple around, and it showed. They played bridge. Sam put on Glenn Miller, because as far as he knew Dean liked it. When _Moonlight Serenade_ began he forced himself to smile but he was thankful that Jess was too pregnant to want any dancing.

It went on like that. Quiet, steady.

By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, it was assumed that Dean and Lisa were on their way down the aisle. Dean didn’t fight it.

Lisa was probably a good match for him. Two sides of the same coin. She had met the love of her life, had a short and beautiful time with him and then kissed him goodbye for what turned out to be forever. There was no grave for her to visit, either. What was left of her husband was rotting under a tropical beach somewhere, shot through with bullet holes. Dean didn’t even want to think about where Cas was. He still had the nightmares about mangled metal and burning fuel.

She didn’t ask too much of him. He treated her well and he was good to her son. Even if their hearts were too broken to be given completely, they had real affection for each other. And of course, she was gorgeous. They started to know people, have friends they went out with, and they got shit about how good-looking their kids were going to be.

Kids. That prospect terrified him. He hadn’t even thought of it, not in a long time. He felt like he’d already raised one, and maybe that was why he didn’t feel the need to have any of his own. But he realized now that all that was going to come, too. He supposed it was what you did.

So the night before Thanksgiving, he offered her a ring. She accepted it with a kiss and a caress to his hair, like she sensed it had cost him something beyond the jeweler’s bill. When they announced it at dinner, Jess’s family cheered as though Dean were their own. He and Lisa smiled at each other, that understanding look again.

Then Dean excused himself to go to the bathroom and vomit up his entire dinner.

 

 

 

> #40
> 
> Dec 2, 1945
> 
> Dear Cas,
> 
> Sorry it’s been so long.
> 
> I don’t know why I keep writing. This letter is going straight into that old trunk, just like all the rest of them. I guess keeping this up was just the closest I could get to you. Part of me feels like you get this, somehow.
> 
> I love you. I’m sorry I never said that when you could hear it. I think you knew it, but I should’ve spit out the damn words. I love you, Cas, and that’s going to be written on my bones the day they put me in the ground.
> 
> I’m getting married. I haven’t written about Lisa and I guess you know why. I think you’d like her, under other circumstances. She lost somebody, too, so I guess we’re both down to our second choices here. Sam and Jess can’t wait to have her as an in-law. There’s a kid, too. I like him. The wedding’s going to make a lot of people happy.
> 
> I gotta tell you, the night after I did it, I was pretty fucked up. I sat and looked at your picture and kicked the shit out of myself, because I know what it’s supposed to feel like when you ask someone that kind of question and it’s supposed to be more than this. That night with you, I think my heart would’ve stopped if you hadn’t said you’d come with me. It was fucking awful.
> 
> It’s supposed to be. It’s how you know. You’re supposed to think you wouldn’t breathe another breath if this one jerk out of all the millions out there in the world wouldn’t agree to put up with you. You’re supposed to wonder what else there would be to life. You’re supposed to feel raw and shitty and desperate, because you just can’t go back to not having that person around. All that just means you got the right one.
> 
> I got the right one. I really did. But I lost you. And now I’ve got to figure something else out for myself here. I can’t just soak up the leftovers from my brother’s life, live around the edges, never put anything together for myself. It’s not fair to him.
> 
> I’m never going to get over you. I get that now. But you know what? I don’t really want to. I’m happy to carry you around forever, because that’s what I’ve got.
> 
> More than anything, what I want is for this to get just a little easier. So when does that happen, huh? I just want to picture your face and not get torn up like I just lost you yesterday. I want to remember you and feel the good stuff, not how much it hurts that you got ripped away. I want to tell a story about you without thinking about how you ended. We had a lot of good things and I’m afraid I’m going to forget it all, just because the last part is too hard. I’m tired of all this grief. I’m just plain tired.
> 
> Every day of my life I’m gonna be thinking about that other day, the one we would’ve been living instead if things had gone just a little different back in July. Just a month before it was done. Four fucking weeks. We almost made it, Cas. We got so damn close. But we didn’t, and I’ve got to figure out how to live with that.
> 
> All right, that’s it, I guess. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to write anymore. If I’m going to do this, I’ve got to do this 100%. Be with them. I think you’d understand that. But just know that above everything else, no matter what, I love you. Always will.
> 
> See you on the other side, Cas.
> 
> Dean

 

 

 

Every day, he made himself a sandwich and went to work at noon. He stayed until 8:30.

Mornings, he read the paper and helped Jess out around the house.

Days off, he helped Sam work his way through the project list. It never seemed to get shorter.

And then Saturdays Lisa came over for late dinner and cards, because Dean was off on Sundays. Sometimes they went out to a movie.

All things considered, it was pretty easy to walk through it. If he didn’t think too hard about it, it wasn’t that bad. Sometimes it was even good. He had good people around him. No big demands. If his heart wasn’t all there, no one seemed to call him on it. He was settling in, like Sam always said he would. He was okay.

It was all okay.

And then Cas came back.


	6. Chapter 6

Christmas turned out okay, despite Dean’s trepidation. They had dinner together, the Winchesters and the Braedens. Ben beamed down the table at Dean and tried his level best to behave despite the stack of presents calling his name. Dean winked at him.

It was kind of fun, having a kid around to pull the gifts from under the tree and fight to contain his excitement at the number with his name on them. They’d never really had that, growing up. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean watched Ben eye the presents all through the meal until he was excused from dinner to go back to ogling them close-up. Finally Dean peeled himself away from after-dinner cocktails and sat down beside him under the tree, tumbler of Scotch in hand.

“So what are you looking for this year?”

“A Slinky.”

Dean whistled. “Pretty hard for Santa to get his hands on one of those.”

Ben gave him a caustic look. “I’m too old for Santa.”

He chuckled. “Well, pretty hard for anybody then.”

“I know, but maybe,” Ben said with the weary air of a kid who’d grown up under rationing. “If not, then a crow shoot, I guess.”

“Hey, those things are fun.” Dean took a drink and smiled into his glass, because he had waited in line at Gimbels himself to grab one of the last damn Slinkys in Philadelphia. That scene had made the Pacific look like a game of Go Fish.

Lisa crouched down between them. “I hope Ben didn’t tell you what we got you.”

Ben shook his head innocently.

“I tried to beat it out of him. No luck. Tough guy.”

“That’s a nice sweater,” she said, rubbing Dean’s shoulder. “Good color on you.”

She returned to the party and he watched her as she fell back into conversation with Sam’s sister-in-law. Jess had suggested he wear this tonight, probably afraid he’d show up in a flannel shirt otherwise. But when he'd hesitated, he'd realized that he had always somehow considered this one to be for Cas. That didn’t even make sense. And so he’d put it on without another thought, just to make a point to himself.

Dean tried not to think ahead, to New Year’s and what that marked. Lisa wanted to go out. A friend of hers was throwing a big party. He had forced himself to agree to go because he couldn’t allow himself anniversaries, but it was going to be a long night of forced grins and straight bourbon.

Christmas passed, the kid got his Slinky, and the holiday bustle receded through the last week of December. Jess was miserable. Big as a house. Sam was tiptoeing around her like unexploded ordnance. Caught in the crossfire, Dean grabbed a chance to escape for a night out with Lisa. Sam watched him go longingly, and Dean saluted as he shut the door behind him.

He and Lisa changed their minds a couple of times about restaurants and movies, neither of them strongly inclined toward anything except getting out of the house, but finally landed on a forgettable romantic comedy. Dean didn’t catch the plot. He spent most of the time letting his mind drift to things he probably shouldn’t.

Afterward he walked Lisa to the door, trying to avoid Mrs. Braeden. Future mother-in-law she might be, but he was going to get his fill once he moved in. In the meantime, he tried to keep the doses small. Lisa permitted the act of self-preservation with a wry smile.

He kissed her and had turned back to the car, his hands in his pockets, when the door opened.

“Dean!” Mrs. Braeden called. “Dean!”

He stopped. Too late. He turned.

“Hi there, Mary. How are you?”

“Your brother’s been calling for you.”

His heart skipped three or four beats. “Is it Jess? She okay?”

“Oh, no, no. Jess is fine. He said to tell you Cas was there.”

It was dark, so it was hard to tell, but everything at the edges of his vision seemed to go away.

He felt himself shake his head slightly. “I think you heard that wrong.”

“He was very insistent. You’d better get home.”

Lisa looked at him with wide eyes. “Isn’t that—?”

He looked at her. She had heard it, too.

“Dean…”

Dean lurched away, forcing himself to take measured steps. It was a mistake. He just had to go back, straighten things out.

“Dean, your car.”

He looked up. He’d almost cut across the lawn, forgetting he had Sam’s Ford idling at the curb.

“Yeah.”

He got in. He looked at his hands on the wheel, at the city through the frosted windshield. There was nothing unreal about it. Not yet. He held his breath, willing his heart to slow down. The heater was running too hot. He rolled the window down partway.

The street was parked up when he got back but there was no way he was circling the goddamn neighborhood so he left the car parked in the middle of the street. In his haste and distraction he slipped on the ice and went down hard on one knee. That was probably going to hurt later.

The old lock jammed and he nearly broke the door open to get inside.

It was dim. Empty.

“Sam!”

He strode through dark rooms, feeling hot tears prick at his eyes. The place was too quiet over the pounding in his ears. Jesus, this was a nightmare, wasn’t it?

“Sammy!”

“Dean, shut up. Jess is trying to sleep.” Sam came jogging down the steps.

“No, I’m not,” a voice called from behind him.

“What? What’s going on?” Dean didn’t have time for this.

Sam had his keys in his hand. “Come on, if we hurry we’ll catch him.” Behind him, Jess made her way down the steps, one at a time.

“God damn it, Sam, what the hell is happening here?” He grabbed Sam’s arm, hard enough to hurt.

“Cas.” Sam looked at him intensely. “He made it back. He showed up looking for you.”

Jess spoke up from where she leaned against the newell post. “We’ve been trying to call the restaurant, call the theater. Nobody could find you.”

Dean stared. They’d changed plans. “Cas is dead.” He hadn’t meant to whisper, but that was how it came out.

“No, that’s what I’m saying. He made it, Dean, he’s— Dean, are you with me?”

“Yeah.” He blinked. “I’m with you.”

“He said he had to get the last train,” Sam said. “We practically begged him to stick around but we couldn’t talk him out of it. We can still catch him.”

Dean couldn’t make the words make sense. He was still pretty sure he was going to jerk awake any second to be left disappointed and weeping in the dark.

Sam was shoving shoes on his feet, tying laces.

“Dean,” Jess called softly from the steps. He turned to see her wide-eyed and tense in the semi-dark. Her knuckles were white where she clutched the banister. But she just looked at him with her mouth open, like she’d run out of air.

“What’s the matter?”

“You need to go.”

“Okay. Yeah.” He turned to Sam, who was swinging his coat over his shoulders. Maybe this was happening.

He started for the door. He was going to try. Even if he’d spend all night tearing around a hallucination of this city after a ghost, he had to go.

Suddenly he was running. He left the door open behind him and leaped down the steps toward the car, running on the snow to avoid the ice. Frigid clumps of it worked their way into his shoes and burned the arches of his feet. He welcomed the pain. That mundane ache was too precise and real to be conjured by a dream.

Behind him, Sam spoke softly to Jess and locked the door.

“Dean!” he yelled. “You’re not driving.”

“Then get the hell in.” Dean didn’t waste time arguing. He scrambled to the passenger side, nearly taking another spill.

Sam dropped into the driver’s seat and fed the engine. “Sure, just park it in the street,” he muttered. “Could’ve gotten towed.”

Dean didn’t pay him any attention. He was glad, distantly, that Sam was driving. It meant he could let his mind race unbridled. He didn’t have enough information. Part of him believed that even if he was awake, and he cautiously started to believe that was actually the case, this might still be some kind of stupid mistake. Maybe he was setting himself up for another big let-down, like when Gabriel showed up. Sam and Jess didn’t know Cas. They’d barely seen a picture.

“Sam, you’ve got to tell me what he said. Exactly what he said.”

“Okay,” Sam held a calming hand out toward him, which drove Dean nuts. “So, he was shot down. He ended up in some kind of off-the-books work camp or something. He’s just back and on his feet, and he’s been trying to find you.” Sam shrugged. “That’s all. I didn’t rake him over the coals or anything. Mostly he just wanted to know about you.”

“What did he… did he look like that picture? Sam, are you sure it’s him?”

“Well, Dean, I didn’t know the guy. And frankly, he looked pretty beat. But... I’d say it was him, yeah. I don’t know why anybody would make up something like that.”

“Jesus.” Dean raked his hands through his hair. He dropped his head back and tried to breathe.

“Hey, um, Jess gave him that jacket, the one you said was his. She just did it. I hope you’re not pissed. He seemed glad you had it.”

Dean did not give a fuck about that jacket right now. He breathed something like a sob. “Is this happening? I mean, is this real?” His voice didn’t sound like his; it was thinner, higher.

“Yeah,” Sam said hesitantly. “It’s real.”

“And…” he clutched his knees. “He’s okay? He looked okay?”

Sam gave him a sideways glance. “Far as I could tell, yeah.”

Dean shook his head and looked out the window. A thought occurred that caught his breath in his chest. “Did you tell him about me and Lisa?”

“Well, yeah. Sort of the headline, right?”

Dean wanted to be at the station, now. Shit, shit, shit. “Why wouldn’t he stay?”

“I don’t know, he just said he had to go. He had a bag but we couldn’t get him to stay over.”

“You gotta hurry, Sam.”

“Dean, would you please tell me what the heck is going on?”

Dean looked out the passenger window, tapping his fingers on his knee. “Just get me there.”

The city flashed past. It was freezing out there, the city quiet and faintly lit by streetlamps and a few of the Christmas lights that were starting to make their way back out of storage now that the war was over. Outside, that air was cold enough to burn your nostrils, frigid and scentless.

It was strange to think about Cas in this. To him, Cas was tied up with Honolulu and the Pacific, all tropical heat and exotic floral winds. Honolulu was a paradise, a heaven, and he hadn’t realized until now how much Cas had become part of that, like he had only ever existed in a mirage. This world, the one Dean lived in, was sharp and dark, with grey snow where it was dirtied by exhaust and muck. Imperfect but real.

And now Cas was in it with him. Dorothy stepping out of Oz.

But that wonder was cut straight through with a sharp edge of guilt. He’d let Cas down. Maybe it was understandable, maybe it was fate fucking with them. Maybe Cas would never blame him for it. That didn’t matter; he blamed himself. He hadn’t come through, and that was the long and the short of it. Something was owed. There was something to prove.

“Sammy,” he said, his voice gritty, “there’s some things I gotta tell you.”

Sam glanced at him. “I’ll say.”

Dean shut his eyes for a minute. “Cas isn’t just some war buddy, okay?”

Sam nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“We, uh, we had something.”

Sam took that in. “Okay.”

“Look, I’m telling you something about me you never knew. You can kick me out, you can disown me, whatever. Later. But this is important now, and I’m not hiding it from you.”

“Okay. W—what are you telling me, Dean?”

“I’m, uh—” He blew out a breath. “I’m with him.”

Sam was quiet for a second, turning that over. “Okay.”

“I mean, together.”

“You're telling me you're  _together_ , like—" He stopped, tried again. "Like—" Words failed.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered. "That's what I'm telling you." It was done. Holy crap. He felt like he’d just belly-flopped off the Chrysler Building.

“So, you mean you’re—”

“Queer, yeah.” He spread his hands. “I like men. I mean, women, too. But... you know, men.”

Sam breathed and looked out his own window for a second. “Geez.”

“You can be pissed at me later. Kick my ass. Whatever you want. But I’ve gotta do this. Because Cas is sitting at that station and he thinks I’m getting married. It’s not even six months, Sam, and I’m practically walking down the aisle. Jesus, I’m such a goddamn idiot for letting this happen. I’ve gotta stop him.”

“But—” Sam shook his head. “Geez, I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything, Sam. It just is.”

“So. You and Cas—”

“Yeah, me and him.”

“I mean, are you sure? Because, you know, it was a war. Things get intense.”

Dean screwed his patience in place. It was a good thing he hadn't said anything to Sam earlier, because not long ago he might have punched him for that.

“I hear what you’re saying, but it’s not like that. There were others before Cas, even before the war. He’s just—Look, I didn’t see this coming, this thing with him, but it’s—” Dean swallowed. “You know how I always ragged on you about watching Jess across the room? How you couldn't look at anything else, and you had that fucking stupid expression all the time?”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“Well, that’s how it is. I get it.” Dean rubbed his palm on his knee and looked out the window. “We had a plan, back in Honolulu. I was all set to tell you, and he was gonna come here. We were gonna… I don’t know, figure out some way to be together. And then we got to the end, and all the sudden he was gone. And that was it.” His throat tightened.

“Dean…” Sam murmured, eyes wide.

“Are you sure it’s him?” Dean strangled out. “You gotta be sure, Sam.”

Sam looked at him, seeing the question differently now. “Yeah, Dean. It’s him.”

“I’m an idiot. I can’t believe how much I fucked this up. It’s like I’ve been sleepwalking and I woke up about to step off a bridge.”

Sam was looking ahead, scowling.

Dean shook his head tiredly. “What, Sam? You want to have some words with me over this? You go ahead. I’m not really caring right now.”

“I don’t want to have words with you, Dean.”

“You got something to say, though.”

“I just—” Sam shook his head and shrugged his hands on the steering wheel. “It’s just a shock. What about Lisa?”

Dean sighed. “I’ll have to break it off. I’m a shithead for ever letting her get tangled up with me.”

“So you’re really serious.”

“What do you think I’m telling you here, Sam?” His voice was too loud in the close quarters of the car.

Sam blew out a breath. “Jesus, Dean, I don’t know. Just give me a minute to take this in.” He leaned back and grabbed the top of the steering wheel, his left elbow lodged against the door. “Do you really think I’d kick you out?”

“I don’t know, maybe. People do.”

“But, me?”

Dean stared ahead. “No. Not you.”

“You fucking raised me, Dean. You think I’d turn around and kick you to the curb? I don’t even know what you’d have to do for me to treat you that way, but it sure as hell isn't this.”

“I know that. I know. I’m sorry. But that kind of thing happens. Happened to Cas. Almost broke it off with me because he was afraid I’d end up in the same boat.”

Sam was quiet for a moment, frowning at the road. “Dean, when you came to stay, I was just so... so happy. You don’t even know. Because I thought, finally, here’s a shot at repaying a little of what you did for me, ever since I was a kid. Taking care of me, getting me through school. Geez, you’re the one who got me to ask Jess out. Everything I have, pretty much, it’s because of you. So when you needed something, I was just so glad to have a shot at making up some little piece of it. I just wanted to make things easy for you for once.” Sam shook his head and bit his lip.

Dean looked out his own window. This wasn’t the kind of conversation they had.

“But then you got here, and it was like some of you didn’t come back. There was always this thing, this weight on you. You were so, I don’t know, so sad. But you wouldn't even admit it. I just wanted to know how to help.”

“Well, surprise. Didn't see this one coming, huh?”

“No.” Sam huffed. “Got that right. So, yeah, I’m a little shocked. And I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what Jess will say, either. But if you tell me this is what you need, then I’m there. Because you look more like my brother now than you have since I don't know when, and well, it’s just good to see you back.” He caught Dean’s eye and smiled a little. “So we’ll catch him, okay? We’ll figure out the rest later.”

Dean could have sobbed, but he averted his eyes and clenched his teeth instead. He should never have let himself doubt. “Look, Sammy. I, uh, I love you, okay? I know we don’t say that kind of thing, but I didn’t say it to Cas and ended up regretting it. So, I love you. I’m not gonna spout it off all the time but just… know it.”

Sam laughed. “Yeah, you, too. I love you, Dean.”

Dean let out a breath. “Okay, enough with the girl talk. Hit the fuckin’ gas.”

They rode the last few minutes in silence. He didn’t need to tell Sam to drop him off. Dean was out of the car before it came to a full stop.

He burst through the doors and took the station at an all-out run. His eyes raked over the people sitting on benches and milling impatiently with brief cases. It was late. There weren’t many.

“Cas!” He started to yell. “Cas!”

He ran from bench to bench, ignoring the looks of annoyance and curiosity.

And then, there he was. Straight ahead. Looking at him.

Dean pulled up.

Cas stood.

Dean felt his face curl up, somewhere between a grin and a sob. He wasn’t going to be able to talk for a minute.

He moved closer, not really feeling his feet. Cas was so beautiful it hurt him to see him, but God, he looked like hell. His head was shaved nearly bald beneath his service cap, which wasn’t anywhere near warm enough for this cold. His face was sunken. He was grey-pale and his eyes were underlined by bruised half-circles. Dean wasn’t sure how he’d even recognized him. The uniform, maybe. The shoulders. The eyes.

Cas was an arm’s length away. He could touch him if he wanted. This was where he woke up, a jibbering voice in his head told him.

In an act of pure faith, he reached, setting his hands on his shoulders. He was thin. Dean could feel the bones through his coat. But he was there. That was him.

Dean shook his head, too many questions. Finally he choked out, “Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean pulled him in. Cas’s arms came up around him and he could feel Cas's fists twist in the wool of his coat. Cas lowered his face into the crook of Dean’s neck, and Dean pressed his face to his hair. He was steeped in the antiseptic smell of the hospital.

Cas sucked in a ragged breath. “I’m sorry.”

Suddenly, inexplicably, Dean found himself laughing. He almost lifted Cas straight off the ground, nearly knocking them both off balance. He wanted to spin Cas around, to punch him in the face, to kiss him until they were out of breath.

Cas pulled back enough for them to look at one another and they breathed, Dean holding Cas’s head in his hands, running a thumb over a sharp cheekbone. It was a fine line to walk, here in the station, but he couldn’t not touch him.

He looked Cas over, from the nicks in his scalp to the sunken place in his cheek where it looked like maybe teeth were missing. A scar ran along his cheekbone on that side, down to his jaw. Those tokens sobered Dean, dissolved the delirium, reminded him that this wasn’t just a happy reunion. There were things that Cas had survived to be here. Probably terrible things. He ran his fingers over the side of Cas’s face, down his neck, squeezed his shoulder. All real.

“Dean.” Cas glanced around.

“What?” He looked over his shoulder. Yeah, they were getting some looks. He would have been happy to tell them all to fuck right off, but he followed Cas’s lead and let it go. He caught sight of Sam making his way toward them. “So you met my little brother, huh?”

Cas didn’t quite meet his eye. “Yes.”

“Well, I think reintroductions are in order.” Dean pulled Cas to his side, an arm tight around his shoulders. “Cas, this is Sam. Sam, this is Cas.” He looked straight at Cas, unflinching. “Sam knows now. I told him.”

Cas’s eyes widened and he looked from Dean to Sam.

Sam stood awkwardly for a moment and glanced at Dean. He held out a hand and Cas accepted it, almost reflexively. “Welcome back. He’s missed you.”

Dean smiled proudly.

Cas looked at the floor. “I need to sit down.”

Dean kept hold of Cas’s arm as he dropped onto the bench and settled beside him, sitting sideways. Cas sat with his knees apart, elbows on his thighs, like a puppet on a shelf.

Sam gave Dean a nod and wandered off, letting them have their space.

“Cas.” Dean said quietly, fighting the urge to take his hands in his. “Where you been?”

Cas’s gaze wandered around the station. “A mine.”

“A mine?”

Cas nodded.

Dean didn’t want to press, he really didn’t. Thankfully, Cas recognized that Dean needed to hear it and didn’t make him ask.

“I was able to ditch before I crashed. I stayed hidden for a while, but I had no food, not much water. It was only a matter of time. When they finally found me I expected to be executed. Instead they sent me off to work.”

“What the hell, they just kept you there? They didn’t let you go?”

Cas smiled but his voice was acid. “It wasn’t a Geneva Convention sort of place, Dean. Not military-run. I was never reported as a POW, just... conscripted. No one told us what was happening.” He stared into the distance, then blinked. “I don’t want to talk about it. I survived. That’s all.”

“Yeah, you did,” Dean murmured.

“I didn’t think I would. I wasn’t sure I wanted to, sometimes.” Cas met Dean’s gaze, and for a moment, he was himself. “But I knew that you’d hear I was dead and somehow, that bothered me more than the thought of actually dying. I had to get back.”

Dean had to look away. “So how did you get out?”

Cas shrugged. “One morning, the guards weren’t there anymore. We just walked away.” He scraped the cuff of his jacket with a thumbnail. “I saw our planes fly over and followed them, hoping there’d be a base. I was sick, didn’t have any water. I couldn’t go far. Then a Jeep came down the road and I stepped out in front of it and waved, and that’s the last thing I remember. I must have passed out. Next thing I knew, it was a couple of weeks later and I was on a ship bound for Pearl Harbor.”

“Holy shit,” Dean breathed.

“Yes.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, but didn’t take one out, just held it in his hands.

Dean wanted to touch him. He grabbed his own knee instead, fighting the impulse. “So you’ve been in the hospital?”

Cas nodded. “Until this morning.”

“And now?”

“My brother offered to let me stay with him.”

Dean stepped carefully. “Yeah?”

Cas managed a tight smile. “People calling you a war hero has a magical way of smoothing things over.” He picked at the packaging on his cigarettes, teasing up the folds on the ends. “Or maybe he’s just feeling guilty about having liquidated my assets so quickly.”

Dean sighed. “Shit. I’m sorry, Cas.”

“I don’t blame you for moving on, Dean. I’m sorry it took me so long. I wasn’t very lucid, and I didn’t have any identification. They wouldn’t let me contact anyone but family until my identity was confirmed. And when the day finally came when they’d let me write and I got your address, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t do it like that.”

“You coulda sent me a fuckin’ smoke signal, Cas. All I needed was a word. I would’ve found you.”

Cas stared at his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“Have you talked to your buddy Gabe yet?”

“No.”

“He came through here a while back. He’s gonna go through the roof.”

“He’s dead,” Cas said flatly.

Dean froze. “How?”

“They told me he shot himself a few days after Thanksgiving.”

“Oh.” Guilt seeped in as he realized he wasn’t surprised. He dropped his head and ran his hands through his hair. “Fuck. I should’ve… I don’t know, I should’ve—”

“It’s not your fault, Dean.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry, Cas.”

Cas remained passive, like he’d taken all he could and the grief just flowed away, over the brim.

Dean leaned in closer, willing him to meet his eye. “Come on, you’re not really leaving.”

“I have to get to D.C.”

“Come home with me.”

“I don’t think I should.”

Dean glanced at Sam, who was halfway across the room, studiously appearing to not pay attention. “I told you, Sam knows.”

“Does your fiancée?”

Dean stilled.

“I told you, Dean, I don’t blame you. Do you love her?”

“No.”

Cas looked up.

“I don’t. She doesn’t love me, either. Not the same way.”

Cas shook his head. “You have a life now.”

Dean stared at his profile. “Cas, I know what all this must look like, but ever since I heard you were dead, I’ve been done. Shut down. I didn’t even feel like I was really here. I wasn’t living, just… letting things happen. Marking time. But you sitting there? Cas, it’s a goddamn miracle. And if you think I’m just gonna let you waltz out of here, you’re nuts. Either you’re coming back with me, or I’m getting on that train with you. Take your pick.”

Cas pulled off his cap and ran a hand over his shorn head.

Dean reached out. He rested a hand on Cas’s back, at the spot where his neck met his shoulders. He could feel the bumps along his spine even through his jacket. “Lisa and I are done either way. I can’t marry her now, not knowing you’re out there. Everything would rot from the inside out. Maybe it would’ve anyway.”

“Dean…” Cas looked up at him. There was fear in his eyes. “I might not be the same person.”

Dean looked sadly over his face, running a thumb along the skin inside his collar. “Yeah. I guess not. I’m not sure I am, either. We’ll just have to figure each other out again.”

“Hey, guys?”

Dean was startled to see Sam so close. But Sam only glanced at him and focused instead on Cas. Whatever he had to say, he was nervous as hell.

“Uh, Jess gave me these. She said she found them with the jacket.” Sam glanced apologetically to Dean. “She thought I should bring them. Since they were addressed to you…”

He held out a short stack of white envelopes, addressed in Dean’s shitty block print, no stamp, no return address.

Dean swallowed. Those were never meant to be read by a living soul.

Cas looked at Dean, understanding that whatever spousal orders Sam was under, this was something that required permission.

Dean gave him a slow nod, and Cas slipped the pack of cigarettes back in his pocket to accept the bundle from Sam, cradling them like something fragile and precious. He flipped through each envelope, his forehead tied in knots. “You kept writing.”

“Yeah,” Dean whispered. “Got me through.” He reached out and took them from Cas’s hands, flipping to the last. He pulled it from the envelope. “Here.”

Cas took the letter, clutching the paper too hard and leaving wrinkles. His hand shook.

Dean watched his face as he read, as his guard dropped away to reveal the well of grief below it. When he finished he leaned forward on his elbows, letter still gripped tight in his fingers.

Dean folded himself over him, draping an arm across his back. Onlookers be damned. This was the love of his life, back from the dead. “Cas, trust me," he whispered. "Remember? You’ve gotta trust me. Just one more time. Please.”

Cas drew a shaky breath. “I’m tired, Dean.”

“I know,” Dean murmured. “Stay.”

Cas let himself be pulled in. Dean took that as a “yes.”

 

 

 

Cas stood in the middle of the bedroom like a stranger in a strange land. He clutched his bag under his arm like somebody was going to snatch it from him, even though it probably didn’t hold much more than a toothbrush and a change of clothes.

Dean set a glass of water down on the dresser. He pulled open a drawer and rooted for a T-shirt and some flannel pants. He tossed them on the bed and gestured at them. “Some PJs. Anything else you need?”

The look Cas gave him said he didn’t even know where to begin answering. Without his coat, he looked smaller. Sharper.

This was Cas’s first real night back, Dean realized. From the war to hell to a hospital, and now here. To him.

Dean approached, step by step, and they regarded one another. Suddenly there was too much between them, too much to say. Instead of trying to find words, Dean reached out and, watching Cas for so much as a twitch that said this wasn’t good, undid the top button of his khaki shirt. He worked his way methodically down, glancing up every few seconds. Every time, Cas’s gaze was still on his.

He wanted to say something but could only stand mute and shake his head. This was Cas, here in his room, warm under his hands.

He pulled the shirt out of Cas’s belt and Cas raised his arms to allow Dean to push the fabric down over his shoulders, off his wrists. Dean took the bag away and draped the shirt over the back of a chair, barely taking his eyes off of Cas’s skin. Cas stood compliant and silent as Dean pulled his undershirt up and over his head and tossed it over the discarded shirt.

Cas’s collarbone stretched the pale flesh of his shoulders and the crescent impressions of his ribs were painful to look at. There were scars, too, rough and healing patches that he knew Cas wouldn’t ever want to talk about. He laid his hands on him, needing to hold him there but afraid to put the weight on him.

“Dean,” Cas whispered. He covered Dean’s hands with his own and pressed them down, urging him to test the reality of him. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah.” He’d meant it to be agreement, reassurance, but somehow it came out as a broken question. “You are.”

He nodded, over and over, and Cas pulled him in tight against him as he broke, and all the tears he couldn’t shed when Cas had died came pouring out now that he had him again, real and alive and clutching him back in his arms.

 

 

 

Dean woke long before he should have, and long before Cas.

He lay facing him on the pillow, so Cas was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes and so far he hadn’t looked away. Barely blinking, he soaked up every real and imperfect detail of him. In the white light of the overcast December morning Cas’s skin appeared pale and bloodless, despite the heat of their entangled bodies beneath layers of quilts in the too-small bed. His expression shifted as he slept, minute reflections of something in his dreams.

Dean pulled a hand from beneath the covers and ran a finger from Cas’s temple, down his cheek to the scarred, indented place that Cas kept turned away from him while he was awake. Cas flinched, but they’d sent him home with something from the hospital and he wasn’t going to be woken easily.

He looked exhausted even as he slept, but peaceful. Dean could see where wrinkles were beginning to crease the fine skin at the corners of his eyes and mouth. He could picture how that skin would age as Cas passed through his years, became an old man. Dean smiled. He could see a life for himself in that.

He was stunned by how much he loved this man. Dean had charted the course of his life by the paths of a precious few people through his universe. He only knew himself by triangulation. Somewhere back in the Pacific, Cas had flared into existence on that map, a whole new point of light. And when it went dark he’d lost himself a little.

But now, in the space of a night, his world had been lit back up. Brilliant and clear.

He was going to find Lisa. Today. This morning, maybe. He would tell her the truth, because she deserved it, and Dean would accept whatever she gave him because that was what he deserved. And then there was Ben. Jesus. He wasn’t going to be seeing much of the kid anymore. That hurt. He’d let himself become something to Ben, even if it was all built on a lie, and now he was going to take it away. He was going to carry that for a long time.

He needed to get Cas out of here, find a place for them to get their footing. He hoped things between Sam and Jess and the Braedens weren’t wrecked for good, but a derailed engagement wasn’t the kind of thing people got over quickly. Dean was fucking people over here. But better now than later, when there were vows and commitments. How close he’d gotten to that shot him full of fear.

He kissed Cas’s cheek, holding his face there, lightly brushing his skin with his nose. “Hey. Lazyass.”

Eventually, Cas’s eyes blinked open. “Hm?”

“I’m gonna get up.”

Cas rolled and looped his arms around his neck. “Wait.”

“You need to sleep. And I’ve got some things to do.” He ran a hand down his back.

“Mm.” Cas settled, breathing deeply, and Dean thought he might have dropped off until he spoke again. “It was all worth it, for this.”

Dean held him tightly for a minute. They were too warm, pressed together like that, but Dean didn’t care. He rolled with Cas to push him backward into the pillow and looked down into his face. He leaned in to kiss him gently on his cheeks, eyes, left temple.

Cas smiled through it, eyes still closed.

“You sleep,” Dean murmured into his ear. “I’ll make breakfast, when you’re up.”

Cas’s arms dropped, and before Dean left he kissed him once more on the lips. Cas's mouth curled into a smile against his, the first real smile Dean had seen out of him, and that felt like a step.

 

 

 

The nursery was on the second floor. Dean heard the creek of the floorboards and made his way up. He knocked softly, and there was Jess, absently straightening the mobile over the crib.

“Room’s looking pretty good.”

Dean had patched the plaster himself. Beneath the fresh coat of pale yellow paint, you couldn’t tell where the old stuff ended and the new began.

“It is. Thank you. For all this.” She glanced up, flashing a brief smile.

“Look, Jess—”

“I read them.” She spun the mobile without looking up. “Your letters. Not all of them, but… enough. They fell out when I grabbed the jacket. I know I shouldn’t have.”

Dean stood there, stunned, taking that in.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Any of this.”

“I know. I didn’t expect it to come out this way. To be honest, I didn’t expect it to come out at all. But that’s spilled milk, I guess.”

She stared at the mobile.

“Look, we’re going to leave, give you guys some space. I’m sorry this all happening when you’re, uh— when you’ve got so much else going on.”

She sighed and leaned against the crib, looking exhausted and uncomfortable in her own skin.

Dean almost left her alone, but he paused. There was something he had to know. “The letters. What made you send them with Sam?”

Jess looked over the headboard, out the window. A look passed over her face, just a flash of something horrible. When she turned back to him her eyes were liquid. “I wrote letters like that. When Sam was missing.”

He stilled.

“I never mailed them. I burned them before he got back. I never wanted him to see.” At that, she burst into tears.

“Hey, hey.” Dean went to her and took her in his arms. She cried into his shirt like it was all still fresh.

They’d written to each other, back then. She’d been upbeat. Confident. She’d been Jess. He should’ve known. He understood better now what that front had cost her.

“He’s okay,” he murmured. “We’re all okay.”

“I know, I know.” She pulled back and wiped her face. She laughed through her tears. “Lord, I am so tired of being pregnant.”

Dean grabbed one of the pristine white cloths destined to wipe a baby’s rear end someday and offered it to her.

She accepted with a shaky grin. “But Dean, if that’s where you’ve been, I do understand that much. All too well.”

“So you helped me make my case?"

“Nobody can resist a Winchester boy crying his heart out.”

Dean rubbed his neck, feeling his face go red. “Well, good to know.”

“Don’t run off too soon. I want to talk to him.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, surprised. “Yeah, of course. You know, he’s still getting his feet under him, though. He’s not really himself yet.”

She set her jaw and nodded. “He’ll get there.” She touched his arm, some kind of offering.

Maybe there was a little too much effort in it, maybe her words lacked the full measure of her natural warmth. But she was trying. She didn’t understand, maybe never would, but she’d accept it. Purely and solely out of love.

He wrapped his arms back around her and said into her hair, “My brother married one fucking incredible woman, you know that?”

It was a couple of hours later when Cas finally appeared in the kitchen, bedraggled but back in the khakis he had worn to the house the day before.

Dean was reading the paper. The classifieds, specifically. He brightened, momentarily stunned with gratitude that he was watching Cas Novak stand in a kitchen doorway and rub his eyes like a four-year-old.

Cas dropped his hands and looked at him, a soft smile on his face. “I read the rest of your letters.”

Dean felt a tug in his chest, but he smiled. “Pretty pathetic, huh?”

“You always told me you couldn’t write real letters. Not true.”

“Had some things to write about, I guess.”

Cas watched him, sleepy and thoughtful.

“You want some breakfast?” Dean asked.

“Maybe in a little while.” He ran his hand through his hair. He had the glazed, shaky look of someone who didn’t sleep without a chemical aid.

“In a little while it’ll be called lunch. I’m gonna make some pancakes and you’ll be powerless to refuse. You want coffee?”

“Yeah, okay. That would be good.”

As Cas sat Dean stood and leaned down to kiss his cheek, feeling a prominent cheekbone against his lips. He stayed that way for a moment, pressed temple to temple, an arm around Cas’s neck. The hospital smell was fading.

Just then Sam came bounding through the door and Cas reflexively tried to pull away, but Dean held on. He kissed him again, intentionally but not ostentatiously, then went to the stove.

“Heya, Sammy.”

“Morning, Dean.” Sam watched him a little longer than necessary, his expression finally melting into that old puppydog look. Then he turned very intentionally toward Cas, who sat frozen at the table, perfectly awkward. “Morning, Cas. How’d you sleep?”

“I— um, very well. Thank you, Sam.”

“That’s some kind of miracle. I can hear Dean snore all the way upstairs, some nights.”

Dean chuckled and turned back to the cupboard to dig out coffee beans. In that moment, he loved his brother more than he’d ever dig up words to say.

He began to futz with the percolator, emptying it and wrestling it back together full of fresh grounds, but halfway through smaller hands took it out of his. Jess had come in on stocking feet, still in her bathrobe.

They met each other’s eyes. She gave him a nod and a bare hint of an uncertain smile, and put the percolator to rights.

“Cas, let me reintroduce the amazing damn woman that my brother does not come remotely near deserving as his wife.” Dean gestured between them.

“Good morning,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry I’m not really dressed.”

Cas opened his mouth and shut it again. “Thank you for having me.”

“Of course.”

“Jess, I’m doing pancakes. How many?”

“Honestly, I couldn’t handle any food right now. This kid likes sitting right on top of my stomach. But thanks.”

“Sam?”

“Dean, let me do that.” Jess batted his hands away. “I’m only comfortable standing anyway. I might as well cook. You sit.”

“No way.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll put you to work plenty once we need diapers changed.”

Sam laughed at that.

“I get the feeling I drew the short straw here.”

There was more slightly stilted small talk as Dean wandered back to the table and dropped down beside Cas. He returned to the paper, skimming the columns of apartments to rent without really reading any of them, too distracted by the sound of Cas’s voice.

He grabbed Cas’s hand under the table and held it on his knee, running his thumb along the rough skin of each knuckle. Above the table Dean offered him a section of the paper and then looked back to his own, skimming over more addresses and abbreviated bedroom counts.

When Cas caught his eye, Dean winked. Cas glanced around the table and back to Dean. His smile came slowly. It was different now, scarred and a little lopsided. But his eyes were the same. Alive and dancing.

And that was how they were gonna be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> For [DCBB 2014](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> [Art Masterpost](http://casamancy.livejournal.com/2198.html)
> 
>  
> 
>    
> Thank you to casamancy for creating the beautiful art for this story. I'm thrilled to have worked with such a wonderful artist. You can find her at [steve-rogers](http://steve-rogers.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Thanks so much to certified angstologists and betas Pinkplate and sisternay for the special brand of tag-team editing, brow-beating and head-patting that it took to get this sucker done. This was my first time writing fiction, like, ever, so it wasn't an easy mission. I salute you. Anything confusing or misspelled or otherwise bothersome in this story is a result of me messing up their work or ignoring their good advice.
> 
> About the racist language warning: Dean uses derogatory terms because it would've been difficult to keep him in character for the time period otherwise, but I softballed it. In reality, he and the other guys on his crew would've said a lot worse, but I just didn't want to go there.
> 
> As far as historical accuracy goes generally, some things I know are right, some things I know are wrong, some things I wrote without so much as a Google search because I was going to do it how I wanted no matter what, and probably many more things are wrong without me even trying. I can go into detail on what's what, but trust me, you'd be super-bored. I also tried to keep the jargon and technical detail to a minimum and focus on the people. Still, anybody who's served or has any depth of knowledge about this era's naval warfare would I'm sure find a million flaws in this, and I apologize for that. It's complicated stuff. That being said, several plot points in this story are based either generally or specifically on real-life events, including the train incident and certain elements of Cas's storyline.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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